


The Mercy Seat

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Series: Where Eagles Dare [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Buddy Cops, Child Murder, Depending on your perspective, Essentially a war movie with an epic soundtrack and wizards, Excessive Punk, F/F, F/M, Gen, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, It's gonna get intense guys, M/M, Second Wizarding War, Some Minor OCs Too, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, War Crimes, but it'll work out mostly, spywork
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2018-11-06 15:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 29
Words: 42,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11039031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: Time has passed and the Golden Trio is safe and happy. Their family— or most of them— is safe and happy with them. There is love, there is joy, there is expansion… The Potters, the Weasleys, and the Black-Lupins are well.If only we could all be so lucky.Percy is a Weasley in a farce called the Ministry. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan are on the run. A Muggle detective named Rosier Bishop has a new partner who sees things and a series of murders that they just can’t explain. Draco and his new wife Luna are stepping through a minefield of friendly Death Eaters who visit for tea after murdering children. Neville’s working with crazy people to try and integrate the Magical world with the Muggle, and oh, yeah, Dumbledore’s dead along with most of the rest of the Order.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The song is Nick Cave's cover of 'The Mercy Seat', which I feel covers a lot of the feelings/plot nicely, if you're trying for spoilers. Sorry for taking so long to start posting part two, but I needed a bit of a break to work on other things (I am actually working on so much bullshit it's insane. Why do I do this to myself? Right, because I have no job).
> 
> This is gonna go in a bit of a different direction than part one, but it still follows the core of this stupid idea: the Chosen One isn't needed to win the war.
> 
> So anyway, enjoy!

  ** _May 14th, 1998_**

 

 

Paperwork is a lot like homework. It’s for the best is it’s done properly and on time, and no one actually wants to do it.

 

Henry bought the bar nearly two years ago, out of irritation with Gilman’s policies on bands they deemed  _ sell-outs, _ whatever that meant. Too many of his friends were told they weren’t allowed to play, and while, yes, NOFX isn’t exactly struggling to get a show nowadays, but there’s something about the comforts of home, and being banned from one of the first, best clubs to play at? It’s disheartening.

 

So, Henry bought a bar. Well, Sirius bought a bar, but it was at Henry’s request, with Henry’s money— for insurance reasons, you understand. Insurance rates go up when a teenager buys a property with a liquor license.

 

It’s name, officially, is Cardy’s. This has led to some confusion within the community thanks to two different groups of people— people Henry knows, who automatically go to his house, and people Henry doesn’t know, who go to the bar. It’s a bit funny, really, though it’s led to more than a few explanations when a stranger wanders through the never-locked front door to catch the dishes washing themselves or some such thing.

 

The policy that has been established by the wizards on Bay Street is as follows: Don’t talk about magic, but don’t hide it, either. For one, Muggles are an oblivious lot. They don’t notice nearly as much as wizards seem to think they do, and the things they do notice can often be explained away without the wizard in question ever saying a word. For another… well, most of the Muggles Henry has come to know since coming to America are more than willing to keep a few secrets within their community, and the ones who aren’t are never believed by the greater population, anyway.

 

There’s a knock on the door. Jerking, Henry realizes that the last three pages of inventory he’s supposed to be looking over hasn’t been absorbed at all, which is… annoying.

 

“Come in!”

 

The door swings open, and a familiar blonde woman steps inside.

 

“Hey, Daph.”

 

“Hello, Henry.” Daphne glances at the papers on his desk. “Am I interrupting?”

 

He sighs.

 

“Nothing that can’t be handled later,” he says, setting aside the inventory book. “What’s up?”

 

Daphne rarely visits the club is she can help it. Cardy’s is a dark, grimy, dirty place— perfect for punkers who spill their beer and toss their cigarette stubs on the floor. It’s less perfect for high maintenance heiresses, however, and there is a certain, absurd quality to the contrast Daphne makes in her pink-and-white striped sundress against the ragged posters glued to Henry’s office walls when she sits down in the creaky chair across from him.

 

“Draco’s sent me news,” she says. “The rebel leader Dumbledore died four days ago. Severus Snape has been named the new headmaster of Hogwarts.”

 

Henry’s mouth pinches. He reaches for his cigarettes.

 

“How’d he die?”

 

Daphne shrugs.

 

“No one knows,” she says. “But his body’s on display at the Ministry, according to Percy.”

 

Percy, dear Percy. Still working at the Ministry despite the clear regime change. He’s a clever one— he has to be. Otherwise he’d’ve been dead long ago.

 

“So,” Henry says. “What now?”

 

“Well, the Purity Act has pushed through,” Daphne says. “Muggleborn children will no longer be able to attend Hogwarts unless they can prove a Pureblood relation— which of course will be impossible, as they won’t be getting letters anymore.”

 

He sighs, rubbing at his forehead unhappily.

 

“This is all kinds of fucked up,” he says.

 

Daphne nods.

 

“Yeah, it is,” she says. “Molly says she’ll be sending over Bill and Fleur next week. Fleur’s pregnant, so Bill’s finally agreed to the move.”

 

They’ll have to ready another room, Henry thinks absently. Ginny and Astoria probably won’t mind sharing, if the rumors are to be believed.

 

“I’ve already had Astoria move her things,” Daphne adds, correctly reading the thoughtful look on his face. “They have a place in the Weasley House.”

 

“Good.”  Henry leans back. “Anything else?”

 

“... Percy got what he wanted,” Daphne offers. “He’s been transferred to Muggleborn Offices, to help with cleanup.”

 

“To get him out of the way, more like.” Henry sighs. “Regardless of how  _ loyal  _ he may have proven himself to be to the Ministry, he’s still a Weasley.”

 

“My thoughts exactly,” Daphne says, nodding. “We may have to arrange for his removal soon, too.”

 

Oh, that’s going to be a joy to deal with. Nobody else knows that Daphne’s befriended the asshole brother except Henry. Everyone thinks he’s gone Dark.

 

“Right,” Henry says, tapping his desk unhappily. “Anything else?”

 

“No, that’s about it, for now.”

 

_ Thank God. _ “Where’s Ron?”

 

“Still at the studio with the Pawns,” she says. “He’s having trouble with their drummer, he said. Doesn’t know how to play on beat.”

 

“That does seem like a problem,” Henry agrees. “Considering that’s what a drummer does.”

 

Daphne hums noncommittally.

 

“He said he’ll probably be home for dinner,” she says. “Jenny’s promised to drag him out by the ear if he stays late again.”

 

The image makes him laugh, mostly because he’s witnessed it before. Jenny has little patience for artistic vision when it cuts into her alone time with her boyfriend.

 

“Henry?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You aren’t planning on getting involved, right?”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“Not personally,” he says. “I don’t want to fight, Daphne. Not after the bullshit they tried to put me through before.”

 

“I know.” Daphne pauses, uncertain. “How would you feel if… some of us got involved?”

 

Henry levels her a sharp look.

 

“You’re not going back to fight,” he says flatly.

 

“No! No, of course not.” She shifts. “I’m just thinking… I mean, I left behind contacts. Perhaps I could… use those contacts.”

 

“How?”

 

“... How would you feel about potentially getting a few more boarders?”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“I’d have to expand again,” he says. “Take a look at the stocks, maybe juggle a bit.”

 

“But you could do it?”

 

“It depends on how many people you’re thinking about bringing through.”

 

“How does ‘every Muggleborn classmate we’ve ever had’ sound?”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“Guess I’ll be looking at real estate listings.”

 

That’s the thing about Henry, Daphne thinks when she circles the desk to hug him. He’s inherently a good man. Selfish, perhaps, in his need to avoid the gore of war at all costs, but willing enough to help others find their peace once they’re out of the thick of it. She made a good decision, taking him on as her first client, and has continued to make good decisions since.

 

Not many people can say that kind of thing.


	2. Chapter 2

“The job is simple: Write down the names here and the addresses in the next column. If it’s a name you think might be of interest, circle it and move onto the next one. Got it?”

 

Percy nods woodenly at the older man, knuckles white around the handle of his briefcase.

 

His new boss— Heiger, his name is, a halfblood— stares him down.

 

“I’ve heard you’re efficient,” he says. “That’s good. This job’s a dirty one, but if people like you and me are to survive, we’ll keep our heads down and do what we’re told. Am I understood?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

The man softens.

 

“Do what you need to get through it,” he says. “Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to to get a promotion— that’s where the real work begins.”

 

Percy swallows.

 

“I think a promotion if a bit out of my reach, Mr. Heiger,” he says, careful to make his tone as bland as he can manage. “After all, sir, I am a Weasley.”

 

“The Snatchers always need competent wizards,” Mr. Heiger says. “Who knows, it might be good for you.”

 

“... How on earth could killing children possibly be good for me?”

 

“Because,” Heiger says, folding his arms across his chest. “Then you know they’re dying quick as opposed to not.”

 

And how’s that for a world? Percy thinks bitterly as he moves to take a seat at his new desk. The real mercy is death, now.

 

Maybe it’s time to start planning a hasty exit in the night. Maybe he could even get away with it, if he knew where to run to.

 

Straightening his shoulders, Percy opens the nearest filing cabinet and pulls the first file.

 

_ Aarons, Reuben. 228 Sound Street, Apartment 6B. _

 

He’ll be eight years old on August fourth, graduating class of 2010— or, he would have been. Little Reuben Aarons will be dead within the week, now that Percy’s written his name down.

 

He pulls the next file.

 

_ Abbas, Malik. 48, Winston Circle. _

 

He should be getting his Hogwarts letter soon, he just turned eleven last week.

 

Percy can’t how these thoughts drag across his mind with each name he adds to the list. These aren’t the names of former students, of people who know their world. These are children, Muggle children, still, who know no more about _ real  _ magic than a dog does. It’s not like they can warn their families, not like they can defend themselves when Greyback comes in the night with a thirst for blood…

 

_ Can’t think about that right now, Perce. Just do your job and keep your head down and you’ll be alright. _

 

… It’s funny. The voice in the back of his head sounds just like Bill when it’s lying.

 

 

*.*

 

 

Grimmauld Place has a new mistress, and her name is Molly Weasley.

 

She’s not the real mistress, of course, but she’s as close as the house is going to get, and it seems like the house knows it, too.

 

Kreacher’s dead. Thanks to Sirius’ forethought, not a week after she buried him in the backyard (with his head still attached, the little bastard), she has a replacement— a sweet little thing by the name of Lacey, who speaks with a heavy Brooklyn and wanders around in a tastefully wrapped tablecloth.

 

Not many people come ‘round the house, nowadays. Well, they do, but Headquarters is less than safe since Snape showed his true colors. At any time, he could come down on them, tear them all apart, and hand them to the Dark Lord himself on a silver platter.

 

He hasn’t, but that’s not the point. The point is…

 

Molly doesn’t know what the point is. Regardless, everyone thinks she’s mad for staying— she doesn’t give a shit, though, because at least Grimmauld doesn’t remind her of Arthur. The Burrow is nothing but Arthur— Arthur, and her children, and her life between wars. Her perfect, happy life.

 

She should have known it wouldn’t last.

 

 

*.*

 

 

Astoria finds a lot of things in America. She finds Muggles— No-Majes— here. She finds their music, their fashion, their film, their love. There’s a lot of love here. There are no social classes in America— not in the structured way, at least. What there are is a lot of people, and some of those people happen to be rich, while others are very, very poor.

 

Many of them are kind, if less than courteous, but then, they don’t know she’s a lady, a pureblood. They don’t even know the meaning of the word.

 

In San Francisco there are a lot of women like her, women who like women, women who don’t want to get married to boring husbands and lead boring lives. She loves it in San Francisco, loves it when Ginny gets her license and she can stop taking the bus. 

 

Ginny is a fantastic dance partner, Astoria finds. Full of rhythm and joy and fire like she’s never known.

 

(They have a thing. Not a serious one, not yet, but it could be, if the way Astoria catches herself looking is anything to go by.)

 

There are dark things, in Muggle San Francisco. In Castro. It’s better now, granted, then it was, but the streets hold a thousand ghosts, more than that, even, who watch with sorry eyes as they’re passed by the young, the healthy, the careful.

 

Astoria doesn’t go to Castro as much as she’d like. While she is perfectly happy to pretend she doesn’t see them, Ginny hates their eyes on her, on their interlocked hands and happy smiles. A few years ago, Astoria wouldn’t have cared, but she’s gotten to know Ginny since ending up another ward in Grimmauld Place, and Ginny’s smiles are worth more than a drunken dance with boys who wear her clothes better than she does.

 

Yeah, Astoria really, really likes Ginny. She’s kind of fucked.

 

 

*.*

 

 

There’s Fred and George, then there’s Fred and Daphne, then there’s Fred and Daphne and George.

 

Fred never thought they’d find another person that could fit with them so well. Lee came close— Lee Jordan, who’s probably dead now— but wasn’t quite a perfect match.

 

Daphne _ is  _ a perfect match.

 

She’s smarter than them in the things she needs to be, smart enough in the things she doesn’t need. They don’t have to explain when they find themselves frustrated over inventions that just aren’t working. She understands when George forgoes his own room to curl up in hers and Fred’s— she even made sure they had a bed big enough. 

 

Fred never thought he’d get so lucky, to have a wife so willing and open as to deal with something like that. She never calls it odd, never accuses them of something untoward (even Lee wondered, though he never had the balls to ask outright), just accepts that sometimes, she has two redheads to wrap her arms around than one.

 

Her only complaint is that they both run a little warm. She hates waking up sweaty.

 

He and Daphne on their own, well… they work pretty well together, too. She’s sharp, quick with her retorts when he teases her and easy to smile when Fred forgets to work at it. She’s quite funny herself— though she doesn’t mean to be— honest in a delicate way that means it takes a minute for people to realize she’s just called them idiots or thieves or liars, leaving Fred in stitches and Daphne smiling so innocently so even the accused can’t really be sure.

 

She’s less delicate in her honesty with Fred, especially now that they’ve gotten over the awkward politeness that followed them in the first few months after their courthouse wedding. Daphne’s even funnier when she’s being blunt, when she leans over during family dinner to whisper that she thinks it’s hot when Sirius and Remus flirt and inevitably are found sucking face over dishes.

 

(Fred choked on his potatoes when he first heard it, but now he takes note. Daphne’s _ wild  _ when they come home after an evening spent in the Potter House, and he has Henry’s godparents to thank. He ought to send them flowers.)

 

That reminds him— they have sex now. A lot of it. Good sex, too, not just awkward fumblings in broom closets or behind the greenhouses. Daphne’s adventurous, which is good, because Fred’s adventurous too, and between the pair of them, there’s little chance of either of them getting bored anytime soon. There’s just too much to _ try. _

 

Married life seems to suit Fred just fine. Granted, theirs is a bit of an unconventional union on both sides, but it’s fun, easy in a way that neither of them ever expected when they signed their papers in her father’s office. Her father who, being the practical man that he is, has moved his practice to New York City, out of the frying pan and into a fire of closely monitored practices that scream mistrust.

 

He should have just gone west, like they did. Most of MACUSA’s forces are concentrated on the east coast, and that’s a long, long way away from them and their burrough of Magical redheads and Muggle punks. They’re where the real fun is, after all.

 

Daphne snuffles quietly in her sleep, rolling over and sighing quietly when her mouth finds his shoulder. The little noises she makes when she sleeps used to make Fred giggle, but now, he just feels warm.

 

Happy.

 

 

*.*

 

 

Bishop’s having a bad day. For one, he woke up late, so he couldn’t make himself his usual cuppa before work. For another, his car was ticketed. He’s a damn detective, parked in front of his own damn flat, and he got a damn ticket? What sort of a world does he live in that something like that is allowed to happen?

 

Oh, and there’s a body. That too.

 

“Alright, who’s the unlucky bastard this time?” he asks as he steps into the squat.

 

“No ID confirmation on the girl as of yet, but we’re told she went by Penny Clearwater.” The boy in the suit smiles, falling into step beside Bishop. “Eddie Nott, by the way.”

 

“Don’t care,” Bishop says shortly. “Have we got a cause of death?”

 

Nott blinks, thrown off by the rude response, before continuing.

 

“Forensics aren’t sure as of yet,” he says. “No obvious marks on her body or signs of drug abuse. She’s a little malnourished, but nothing a few weeks back home couldn’t fix—”

 

Bishop stops.

 

“No drugs?” he says. “You’re telling me we’ve found a girl in a drughouse, and she wasn’t on drugs.”

 

Nott shrugs.

 

“That’s what forensics said,” he says. “The others say she wasn’t taking anything, either— though, they’re claiming they’re clean too, so I don’t know how much I’m willing to trust them on that…”

 

Bishop tunes the kid out, crouching beside the body. It smells like homelessness and the beginnings of decomposition, but there’s something else there, too, perfume, perhaps? Frowning, he reaches for his handkerchief, carefully pulling open her jeans pocket and pulling out a small vial, no larger than a nail polish bottle, full of an odd, glimmering purple liquid.

 

“No signs of drug use my arse,” he mutters, pulling out a plastic evidence bag. Whatever she was on, it was new, and new was always dangerous.

 

“Detective Bishop?”

 

Oh, for God’s sake, was the boy still talking?

 

“What, Nott?” he growls.

 

“Err, there’s a call coming in. We’re wanted back at the office.”

 

_ “We’re  _ wanted back?” Bishop pushes himself back onto his feet. “What’s this _ we  _ shite?”

 

Nott stops, eyes going wide and a little sad, like a puppy who’s been denied scraps.

 

“Weren’t you listening, sir?” he asks. “I’m your new partner, starting today.”

 

Bishop wasn’t listening. He wasn’t and he isn’t listening properly now, because no, nobody would pair him up with a baby detective, they just wouldn’t. They know better.

 

Bishop’s having a really, really crap day.


	3. Chapter 3

**_July 18th, 1999_ **

 

 

Luna knew marrying Draco would throw her into a world of Darkness, she knew it. Her father warned her that her path would take her there on the night after Draco asked him for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Her mother-in-law warned her as she fiddled with her yellow bridal robes, minutes before the beginning of a ceremony that featured more than half of the Inner Circle in attendance.

 

Both had said it for different reasons, of course. Xeno knew she was like him, that she had her chosen and would do anything to keep him and nothing, not even the looming threat of a Dark Lord returned would turn her away. When he said it, it was simply a reminder of the trials that stood ahead of her, nothing more, nothing less.

 

Narcissa liked her, appreciated her beauty and her breeding and the way Draco brightened when he looked at her. Her kindness, however, would be a weakness in the coming war, and Narcissa thought her too fragile to stand the Darkness that would son become a constant in her life.

 

Luna may be dainty, may seem (and is) soft and kind, but she is not fragile. She would not be a Lovegood if she were.

 

She proves it when the reception following brings forth a slew of people she never thought she’d meet in a setting that didn’t involve drawn wands.

 

The Lestranges, for instance.

 

“So this is your chosen bride, nephew,” Rodolphus says when they come to greet the new couple. “A beautiful girl.”

 

“Thank you, Uncle,” Draco says stiffly.

 

Rodolphus holds out his hand to her. Luna ignores the way her skin crawls when she settles her fingers in his palm for her to kiss.

 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Lestrange,” she says softly. He smiles, revealing three silver teeth.

 

“Please, Mrs. Malfoy, we are family, now,” he says. “You may call me Uncle.”

 

Luna lets her mouth quirk.

 

“Uncle,” she repeats, nodding.

 

“That makes me your Auntie,” Bellatrix adds, stepping forward to press a kiss to Luna’s cheek. Her smile is pleasant, her eyes bright, and if Luna didn’t know her for what she was, she would seem a perfectly amiable woman.

 

“You make a beautiful bride,” she says when she moves back. “Perhaps you are not of the Sacred’s stock, but I can see already that you have the makings of a Malfoy.”

 

It’s meant as a compliment, Luna’s sure of it, so she smiles. Draco always tells her how lovely her smiles are.

 

“I can only hope to one day be as regal as Narcissa,” she says. “She is a role model like no other.”

 

Bellatrix smile widens.

 

“Oh, Drakey, I like her,” she says, looking at her nephew. “Proper respect for her mother-in-law, I like that.”

 

“Your approval means the world to me, Aunt Bella,” he says. His grimace is well-hidden, but Luna can see the expression pulsing in the vein in his temple.

 

They move along, let the rest of the wedding guests offer their congratulations. There are more Death Eaters, some warm, some polite, some subtly sneering. Snape’s one of those, though Luna thinks that has more to do with the way he is than anything against her. He’s Draco’s godfather, she finds out when he leaves them to get another drink.

 

Everything is going very well, until it isn’t. The ballroom of Malfoy Manor goes dark and cold when only moments ago there was summer sunshine, the tall, stained glass windows flying open with the force of a dark wind. Smoke billows into the ballroom, forming itself into a thin black funnel before dissipating, revealing…

 

Luna goes very, very cold. A pale face, red eyes, thin, lipless mouth. She never thought about what the Dark Lord might look like, but now she doesn’t have to, because he’s standing in front of her.

 

Wait.

 

She keeps her expression flat, focusing on the man as he turns slowly to take in the ballroom. There’s… an afterimage. Nothing visible to most wizards, but then, no one has the same natural talent with glamours that Lovegoods have. Granted, it’s a good one— she can’t discern any actual features of the man that lies beneath— but to know it’s a glamour is something of a comfort, paltry as it is.

 

His eyes find her and Draco.

 

The noise he makes is one of satisfaction.

 

“And here’s the happy couple,” he says. His voice is soft and so utterly alien— another glamour, Luna suspects. “The young Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy.”

 

Draco bows low, an exaggerated greeting better suited to a house elf than an heir. Luna curtsies, careful not to wrinkle the folds of her wedding robes.

 

“We were not expecting you, my Lord,” Lucius says, stepping forward with a bow almost as deep as Draco’s. “We apologize, but we are ill-prepared—”

 

She sees a spark of fury in the Dark Lord’s red eyes. She moves almost thoughtlessly, laying a gentle hand on Lucius’ elbow. Regardless of how cold the man may be with her, he’s her father-in-law now, and Narcissa seems quite fond of him. Better to save him from becoming a gibbering mess in the middle of the floor. Not on her damn wedding day.

 

“Thank you, my Lord,” she says, not sparing Lucius a glance. “For joining us on this joyful day. I was uncertain as to whether or not you would attend, but I made certain to leave a place for you at the family table. I was told you are close with the Lestranges.”

 

Luna can feel the prickle of fear emanating from her husband, but she doesn’t turn her head, doesn’t look away for a moment when the Dark Lord turns his focus on her.

 

“Not at the High Table?” he asks, tone deceptively smooth.

 

She smiles.

 

“No, my Lord,” she says. “I felt that— should you have been unable to attend— it would have thrown off the careful symmetry of the room. For all that a wedding is a bond between two people, the bride is always the centerpiece, and I felt it best that I be displayed properly. I am a stranger to many of our guests, you understand.”

 

The Dark Lord’s lip twitches up into an odd, humorless smirk.

 

“A very practical young woman,” he remarks. “But there is a flaw in your reasoning.”

 

“Is there, my Lord?”

 

“Indeed.” He steps closer. Lucius instinctively backs away, but Luna stands firm. “I have, in fact, arrived.”

 

“You have,” she agrees. “But as I said before, my Lord, I am the centerpiece. It is my day. And as bright as I may be—” she gestures at her sunshine yellow dress. “— I felt, sir, that should you arrive, you would draw the eyes of every guest in attendance. Pardon my forwardness, but I’d like to remain the center of attention today.” She smiles at him, her face a perfect impression of a dreamy, somewhat silly girl.

 

None of this is true, of course. She set a place for the Dark Lord as far from herself as possible without endangering herself by offending him. She wouldn’t have even allowed Narcissa to send out an invitation if it weren’t for the fact that Lucius was Inner Circle.

 

(She wouldn’t have any of these people here, actually, but at least _ they’re  _ not the Dark Lord himself.)

 

His smile grows wider, and a moment later, he lets out an odd, hissing laugh. Yes, she thinks, his voice has definitely been altered.

 

“You are a bold girl,” he says. “Tell me: are you afraid?”

 

“I am,” she says, honestly. “But you are a reasonable man, I think, and a  _ reasonable man _ has no _ reason  _ to harm me now that I’ve explained myself properly.”

 

He continues to stare. She stares back, resisting the urge to react to the prodding of his Legilimency when he meets her eyes. Instead, she allows her Occlumency shields to become smooth and slippery, like oiled glass.

 

Finally, the Dark Lord nods.

 

“An odd choice for a bride, Draco,” he says, turning to the Malfoy heir. “But an intriguing one.”

 

Draco swallows, moving to stand beside her.

 

“Thank you, my Lord,” he says, inclining his head.

 

“Would you like me to show you where you are seated?” Luna asks, an earnest smile fixing itself to her face. “I am sure a moment of relaxation can only be beneficial. I imagine you must be very busy, most days.”

 

The Dark Lord seems taken aback by the offer.

 

“... My, my, you’re quite proper, for a Lovegood,” he remarks. “Narcissa has taught you well.”

 

Actually, it was her father, but Luna feels like correcting him is pushing it.

 

“Thank you, my Lord,” she says, curtsying again. “Please, your table is right this way.”

 

She doesn’t expect it when he offers her an arm. Regardless of social customs, there’s something incredibly jarring about the man wearing a snake-faced glamour who is slowly killing off nearly two-thirds of the population holding out his elbow for her to take— which she does, against her better instincts.

 

The walk to his table is an eerily silent one, all eyes following their progress across the ballroom. It isn’t until he’s seated, robes gathered properly around him, that the world seems to jerk itself out of its shock. The music starts up again, the quiet hum of chatter begins.

 

“Yellow does not suit you,” the Dark Lord says before she can excuse herself back to her husband to hyperventilate. “Were you a Hufflepuff?”

 

Luna shakes her head.

 

“A Ravenclaw,” she says. “But my father believes yellow is good luck to wear at weddings. You might have noticed, but Draco is wearing a yellow under robe as well.”

 

“A silly belief,” he says simply.

 

“Perhaps,” she agrees. “But every little bit helps. Draco signed on as a Snatcher nearly a year ago, now, as I imagine you’re aware. The Mudbloods—” Oh, Merlin, the word makes her feel like she forgot to brush her teeth this morning. “— have been known to get rowdy, I’ve heard. As skilled as I know Draco to be, it makes me nervous to think of it.”

 

The Dark Lord smiles.

 

“He is taking the time to prove his talent,” he says approvingly. “I am sure you have little to worry about.”

 

“I know,” she says. “It’s silly, but I still worry.”

 

“Of course,” he says. “You are young. You have not yet had time to face the world.”

 

“My father says something similar.”

 

“Luna, my dear, you must return to Draco. It’s nearly time for your father’s toast.”

 

Narcissa is a godsend, she really is.

 

Luna offers an apologetic smile.

 

“Apologies, my Lord,” she says. “But I must leave you.”

 

“A shame,” he says. “I have the feeling that you are an amusing conversationalist.”

 

“Well, my Lord, if you like, you might stop by for tea with me.” Why did she say that? _ Why? _ Oh, right, because it’s the proper thing to do. Dammit, Narcissa.

 

He seems to see that shock on her face, because when he smiles, it’s genuine amusement.

 

“Perhaps I will take you up on that offer,” he says smoothly. “Congratulations, Mrs. Malfoy. I imagine you have a long and fortunate life ahead of you.”

 

Well, that’s very kind of him, Luna thinks as she curtsies one more time and steps away. He almost sounded like a normal, not-mad person.

 

When she finds her way to Draco again, he’s already seated at the High Table. He’s pale, paler than usual, the lightest sheen of sweat shining on his brow.

 

The moment she sits down, he finds her hand under the table.

 

“Never do that again,” he whispers, and there’s genuine, pants-pissing fear there. “Please don’t ever do that again.”

 

Luna’s shaking, now that she’s no longer under the Dark Lord’s gaze. She grips his fingers tightly.

 

“I won’t,” she promises. “Believe me, I won’t.”

 

“He’ll want to recruit you,” Draco says, eyes on the table where the Lestranges and the Dark Lord are now seated. “You showed a bit of gumption, he likes that.”

 

Well, that’s exactly the opposite of what Luna wants.

 

“How do we deter that?” she asks.

 

“...” Draco looks at her, blushing slightly. “I don’t think he’d take you pregnant, though I’m not sure if you want children yet…”

 

“Oh, then we’re alright.” She offers him a small, awkward smile. “I was going to tell you tonight.”

 

Draco blinks.

 

“Tell me what?”

 

“Draco, I’m already pregnant,” she says. “Three months along. I was waiting to tell you until after the wedding.”

 

“Three months…” he mouths, face slack with surprise. “The— your last Hogsmeade weekend?”

 

She nods.

 

“We’re going to have a baby, Draco.”

 

It takes him a moment longer to process the information, but when it’s understood, when everything’s catalogued and properly filed, his face breaks into a wide grin.

 

“That’s amazing, Luna.”

 

She smiles back.

 

“Isn’t it?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's some OC set up here, bear with me. I wanted to get plot relevant stuff out of the way as quickly as possible.

Lyra Black is the eldest of eight girls and four boys, the heiress to the American Black fortune, provided she remains unmarried. That’s just fine with her. It’s been a long time since they last had a bastard inherit the Black Lordship, and her progeny would make for an excellent change of pace. There might even be a murder, can you even _ imagine  _ the excitement?

 

Unlike their British counterparts, the Blacks of America saw a chance to populate an entire country and did their damndest to achieve their lofty goals. Lyra has four hundred and thirty-two-and-a-half first cousins alone spread across the fifty states if one considers grandfather’s harem as family (which Lyra does), most of them pure. She has nearly one thousand second cousins after that, their blood a touch murkier, of course, but that’s only because of all of the adoptions. Magical children of No-Maj stock are often the most overlooked of the American Magical Community, and the Blacks have long since been working to care for them.

 

Save for the Longbottoms, the Blacks are the strongest Magical family in America. If there is one, there are usually more.

 

“Lyra, my sweet, what happiness troubles you?”

 

Her father quite closely resembles Sirius, the Black traits strong upon his regal face. His charcoal skin glows with Magical runes of protection, white light shining out from under the edges of his button-down shirt.

 

She sighs.

 

“I wonder about the war that cousin Sirius has left behind,” she says, turning her soft gray eyes on her father. “I wonder about the blood spilt.”

 

“He and his kin were proper cowards, leaving when they did,” Procyon says proudly. “I imagine, however, it must seem so strange to you, having never witnessed true, gruesome war.”

 

“I long for that future,” she says mournfully. “My bullets embedding themselves in brain matter, my wand firing spell after spell without the dark of night shrouding me from view…”

 

“Your day will come, my dear,” Procyon says soothingly. “Just as it comes for all of us.”

 

“What kind of Lady will I be without a war campaign?” she asks. “I know that there’s precedent, of course, but… how will I prove my strength without the blood of enemies to bless my blade?”

 

“With each generation it grows more and more difficult,” her father says. “The English Blacks have survived well, and they left behind the practice centuries ago.”

 

“And how small their numbers became,” she says. “They gave up so many of the Old Ways, and look at them— inbred, magically weak, mad in all the wrong ways…”

 

Procyon sighs.

 

“My darling, if it truly means so much to you, you know there is a way,” he says. “You know I went away for my campaign.”

 

Lyra’s eyes widen.

 

“Do you really mean it?” she asks.

 

Procyon chuckles.

 

“Of course, dear. When the war will not come to us, we go to it. It’s the Black way.” He taps out a rhythm on his knees and pushes himself to his feet. “If you’re truly set on sating your lust for war, do as is always done. Take thirty men, arm them, and march upon Wizarding Britain. This Dark Lord wishes for a great war. It would only proper to oblige him.”

 

Lyra smiles brightly.

 

“Thank you, Daddy!”

 

He presses a kiss to her forehead.

 

“Anything for my princess.”

 

 

*.*

 

 

**_September 12th, 1999_ **

 

 

“What inspired you to bring the Wizarding World to life through television, Marlowe?”

 

Marlowe shrugs, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose with a finger.

 

“It’s how I grew up, you know?” he says. “The stories I’m telling are all true, you know? In more than one way, and— I just wanted to share ‘em.”

 

The interviewer smiles politely.

 

“So, the rumor is that WixTV will be launching within the year,” she says. “Anything you want to tell your fans?”

 

“Um, well—” Marlowe shifts. “Well, WixTV has an official date now, actually. It’ll be available on most network providers starting on the solstice— that’s December twenty-first, for you casual fans,” he adds, smiling. “It’s going to be following a sort of… well, it’s a little bit of everything, really. We’re trying to flesh out Magical life, a little bit.”

 

“Could you give us a few examples?” she asks. “Like, will WixTV have… sports? Kids’ shows? What sort of stuff are you talking about?”

 

“Oh, yeah— Quodpot games, and Quidditch too, when we need to fill a time slot,” Marlowe says, smile turning into something devious. “And we’ll be playing children’s shows on Saturday mornings, probably. Um… we’ll be playing movies. We’ll have a six o’clock news show every evening, a soap opera, a few talk shows… all sorts of things.”

 

“And all of this stuff will be focused on the Wizarding World?”

 

Marlowe nods.

 

“And where it intersects with the No-Maj World,” he adds. “A lot of people forget, but they exist side-by-side, you know? There’s bound to be some overlap every now and again.”

 

“Is everything written by you?”

 

“Not even close. Longbottom-Graves Productions has hired a full staff of writers and journalists to help present my vision as perfectly as can be done. And we’re still hiring, actually.”

 

“Are you?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, totally— anybody with knowledge of the Wizarding World and a talent for writing is welcome to submit an application. The details are all on our website— WixTV.com— and… yeah. Apply, if you’re interested.”

 

The interviewer smiles.

 

“Well, it looks like that’s all the time we have for today,” she says. “Thanks for talking with us, Marlowe.”

 

“Of course— thanks for having me.”

 

The woman turns to the camera.

 

“That was Marlowe Graves, author of the best selling series _ Growing Up Magic  _ and director of  _ The Line Between, _ coming live from _ Nine O’Clock with Nancy Neiler.  _ We’ll be back after this commercial break.”

 

The light indicating rolling cameras blinks off, and Marlowe pushes himself to his feet.

 

“I really do love your work,” Nancy says, reaching out to shake his hand. “My kids read the first book for school, and just… would you mind signing a few things?”

 

“No, not at all.”

 

“Mr. Graves? It’s Mr. Longbottom on the phone. He says he wants to talk to you.”

 

Marlowe sighs.

 

“Do you mind holding on for just a minute, Nancy?” he asks. “I’ll be right back.”

 

“Of course, Mr. Graves.”

 

“Call me Marlowe, please.”

 

Nancy smiles, batting her eyelashes in a way that tells Marlowe that good things are coming his way. He has to force himself not to smirk.

 

“One minute,” he promises, turning to follow the girl back to his dressing room, where the phone’s already waiting, blinking light and all.

 

He picks it up.

 

“Listen, Hagan, I’m really busy—”

 

“How’d the interview go?”

 

“How d’you think it went? Fantastic, as always.” Marlowe smiles at his reflection. “The cameras love me.”

 

“Oh, I know they do,” Hagan says, and he must be rolling his eyes, because that’s what he always does when Marlowe starts to feel good. “Did you plug the website?”

 

“You know I did. Now can I please get back to work? Miss Nancy was giving me moon eyes, and I haven’t had an orgasm in at _ least  _ six hours—”

 

“Six? That must be a new record,” Hagan says dryly. “Listen, you haven’t got much time to waste on pretty No-Maj girls. Your flight’s in an hour, and I really can’t have you missing it. We’re still having issues with Russo.”

 

Marlowe huffs.

 

“Listen, Carlotta’s a great reporter and all, but unless she stops dramatizing petty bullshit, I want her out,” he says. “We don’t need that kind of crap on Wix. We’re supposed to be  _ educating,  _ not sensationalizing.”

 

_“I_ know that, but _she's_ just not getting why her stories are getting cut,” Hagan says. “You’re the only one she’ll listen to, Mar— you gotta get back here, pronto.”

 

He sighs.

 

“Yeah, alright,” he says. “Let me just wrap things up here.”

 

“I hope you don’t mean that literally.”

 

_ “Bye,  _ Hagan.”

 

Marlowe hangs up and runs a hand through his hair, tossing his sunglasses onto the vanity with a sigh.

 

Being famous is  _ exhausting,  _ sometimes.


	5. Chapter 5

Percy can feel himself going mad, he really can. All those names, all those addresses— they bounce around his head at night, particularly the return lists.

 

Those are the worst part of his job, is the return lists. All those names crossed out, all those little kids. Besides writing out the lists in the first place, now he’s got to check the locations of the kids that got away— the kids who were smart enough to run without really knowing why.

 

Percy has never hated his eidetic memory more.

 

Because the addresses update themselves every morning. Eleventh birthdays pass with little markers informing him that these children are to receive their letters beside their names. Children who were alive this morning have their names blacked out within the week, and he watches each one disappear with the full knowledge that it’s his fault.

 

He’s been doing this for nearly a year, now, carrying this list of names in his head the way another might carry a backpack full of lead. It weighs on him, every moment of every day. He can’t sleep. He barely eats. When he closes his eyes, he pictures the faces of children he’s seen in the street on the way to his flat in Muggle London, and wonders if he’s condemned any of them to death.

 

Not that he sees many children anymore. The Muggles have caught on— they know something very, very terrible is happening in their country.

 

It’s on a particularly cold night in late December that he decides he can’t take it anymore. He needs to— he needs to get the names out of his damn head. He needs to get rid of them. He  _ has  _ to.

 

Percy’s not like his brothers. He can’t scream or throw tantrums like Ron and Charlie, can’t start a fight or fly like Bill or— or the twins. His feelings don’t bubble like that, don’t fester.

 

No, Percy’s the sort to stew, to let things melt and ooze until it’s hardly anything at all to press his palms against the lip of a hot cauldron and feel his skin peel back from the heat.

 

He can’t do that anymore, he thinks even as he sets the kettle to boil. While nobody might care about a few burns the idiot paper-pusher Weasley might have, these are dangerous times, and Percy can’t afford to have damage his hands should he be in need of complicated wandwork.

 

It’s so simple, really, to take a quill and a fresh parchment to the small kitchen table along with his tea, to write out the names of the children who were lucky enough to be away from home on the night the Snatchers came for them. He writes out the names of the children who’ve just been born, who are still waiting in Muggle hospitals to be taken home by their joyful, glowing mothers. He writes out the names of ten-nearly-eleven year olds who will soon disappear from the Muggleborn registry, untrackable after their supposed introductions to the Magical world. He writes out the names of immigrants, children whose names appear between one day and the next thanks to the simple mistake of being born to Muggles who have yet to realize how afflicted their new country is.

 

When he finally pulls his quill away, he has thirty-three names. Four of them are newborns, all within a day of each other. Seven of them should be getting their Hogwarts letters this summer. All of them are still alive, and will be until the final lists are forwarded to the Snatcher parties in ten to fifteen business days.

 

… This was a bad idea. 

 

Because what’s Percy going to do? Is he going to run and save them all? Percy Weasley, the stick in the mud brother? The stickler-for-rules, prefect, Head Boy, boring brother who excelled in Arithmancy and Herbology— two essentially useless magicks on their own— and left behind a family who loved him for a job at the Ministry? The low-level death-dealer who lives in a one-bedroom Muggle flat on the poor side of London?

 

He’s not strong enough to do anything, not on his own. All he’s done is reinforce the fact that he’s about the be the cause of death for thirty-three little kids who didn’t even get a chance to touch a Hogwarts letter.

 

Sighing to himself, he lets his head thunk lightly against the table, frustration at his own impotence making his shoulders shake with something that isn’t a sob, it isn’t. God, why is he the one in this mess? If it were Bill, or, or Ron, they would know exactly what to do. They’d have a plan of action, and they’d put that plan _ into  _ action, because they had friends, friends who thought like proper Gryffindors, who would help them do something foolhardy and suicidal simply because it was the right thing to do. Who does Percy have? Nobody, that’s who. All of his brothers are gone— most likely, they’ve left the country. And even if they were still around, they hate him. He betrayed the family, after all.

 

_ Face it, Perce, you’ve got nothing and nobody. _

 

… Wait.

 

Frowning, Percy sits up. Fred’s wife— Daphne. She’d given him a letterbox, one of those expensive, dead-useful letterboxes that can pass on messages almost instantly. She’d given him instructions, promised him an ally in Britain, should he need it.

 

Hope blossoms in his chest as he begins to think. There’s someone else in Britain, someone who could be stronger, braver, better than Percy. If he just passes along the list, if even one of these children manages to be saved—

 

The letterbox is stuffed under the bathroom sink, hidden under Brillo pads and bleach. He pulls it out, ignoring the dust that’s gathered on the lid as he tucks it under his arm and returns to his kitchen.

 

Sitting back down, he dips his quill in ink and scribbles a note at the bottom of the parchment.

 

 

_ This is a list of underage Muggleborns that have yet to be discovered by the Snatchers. Their names were sent out yesterday to be processed, meaning they have less than a month left before they are killed. I don’t know who you are, or if you can even help, but if even one of these children could be saved, I would be in your debt. _

 

 

Percy doesn’t know how to sign, so he doesn’t, leaving it at that before stuffing the list and the note in the letterbox and shutting the lid. He knocks on it twice, watching the runes shine blue with magic before dimming again.

 

Letter sent, he thinks to himself. He’s done all he can. Now, there’s nothing to do but wait. Not even wait, actually— after all, he doesn’t even know if the man on the other side of the letterbox (or woman, he doesn’t know) can help him, if they’re even alive to help him.

 

Still, his heart feels lighter when he washes his mug and hides the letterbox again before returning to his room. He feels like… he’s accomplished something.

 

He hasn’t felt like that for a very long time.


	6. Chapter 6

“Mistress, the Dark Lord is here— he is asking for you!”

 

Luna’s eyes fly open at her House Elf’s panicked whisper. Turning her head just so, she takes in Iggy’s bulbous, watery eyes not inches from her face.

 

“Why?”

 

“The Dark Lord says he is here for tea.” Luna can’t see it, but she knows the House Elf is wringing her hands. “Iggy would have told him Mistress was sleeping, but I was afraids, Mistress.”

 

Luna blinks and pushes herself up.

 

“Of course, Iggy, that’s quite alright,” she says kindly. “Would you direct him to the observatory for me? There should be a lovely view of the moon tonight. Tell the Dark Lord— tell him that I will be there shortly.”

 

“Yes, Mistress.” There is a small crack, signalling the elf’s Disapparation.

 

A moment later, the candle on Luna’s bedside flickers to life.

 

“Draco,” Luna whispers, reaching over to gently shake her husband’s shoulder. “Draco, wake up!”

 

“Mhrpfmm…”

 

“Draco, darling,  _ please.” _

 

“Hmph? Wha’?”

 

Luna leans closer.

 

“The Dark Lord is here,” she says. _ “Right now.” _

 

There’s a pause, and then Draco’s pushing himself out of bed.

 

“For what?” he demands, already moving to dress. “Has something happened?”

 

“He says he’s come for tea with me,” Luna says. “I invited him during the reception.”

 

Draco scoffs.

 

“At—” he glances at the clock. “Three-thirty in the morning?”

 

“I can’t imagine being a Dark Lord leads to a normal schedule,” Luna says. “Though you’re likely right. Help me dress?”

 

“Of course— wait, why?”

 

“Because,” Luna says patiently. “The Dark Lord has come for tea, and asked for me specifically. Regardless of his true purpose, he did ask for me, and I think I’m a touch out of shape to be dodging Cruciatus curses.” she glances down pointedly at her pregnant belly, then back to her husband.

 

Draco swallows.

 

“I don’t want you seeing him,” he says.

 

“Well, we don’t have much choice in the matter,” she says sharply. “So come help me. You know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

 

 

*.*

 

 

It’s the witching hour, and Murphy Finnegan should have fallen asleep hours ago. He has an early start tomorrow morning, a busy day— three more bodies were found in East London last night.

 

It’s quiet, as quiet as the city can ever be, and sleep is just out of reach—

 

There’s a bang on his door that makes Murphy startle so badly he tumblrs out of bed.

 

“Oh, fer fuck’s sake—”

 

Whoever it is, they don’t seem to care that decent people might be sleeping at this hour. They start banging again, louder, faster, angrier.

 

Pushing himself to his feet, he fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand and throws himself through the house.

 

“I swear ta fuck, if it’s you again, Danny—”

 

“Da, open the damn door!”

 

Murphy freezes, hand on the doorknob.

 

“Da!” More banging. “Da, you motherfucker, open the door before I kick it the fuck in!”

 

Unsure of what else to do, Murphy opens the door.

 

“Seamus?”

 

Seamus shoulders past him, a thin young man cradled in his arms. An old man follows behind.

 

“Da, I need ya ta fix ‘im,” Seamus says, lying the boy down on the couch. “He’s bleedin’ and it won’t stop!”

 

“Bleedin’?” Murphy shuts the door behind him. “Seamus, what’s going on?”

 

“Didn’t I just fuckin’ say?” Seamus demands. “I need you to sew ‘im up!”

 

Murphy looks at the boy spread across his couch. He’s dressed in some kind of uniform— they all are— and the blood oozing from his thigh has long since seeped through the thin striped pants he’s wearing. His dark skin is ashy from blood loss, his body thin and shivering despite the relative warmth of the house, and his hand— only the one, he doesn’t have his left hand— is clutched in Seamus’, long fingers limp in his son’s grip.

 

Murphy kneels beside the boy to look over the damage.

 

“Seamus,” he says, tearing away the threadbare fabric. “My kit’s under the bathroom sink. Get it for me.”

 

Seamus hesitates for a moment too long, long enough for the older man to move.

 

“No, Garrick—”

 

“Sit, boy,” the man orders, long-fingered hand pressing down on Seamus’ shoulder as he hobbles past him towards the open bathroom door. “You’ve been taking care of us long enough, I think.”

 

Murphy’s hands fumble a moment before he can open the kit that’s handed to him, bringing out a curved needle and thread.

 

“What are you planning to do?” Garrick asks, frowning at the needle.

 

“Muggles sew up wounds,” Seamus answers tersely. “Da can do it, he’s got the training.”

 

“That I do. It’s been a while since I’ve worked on a breathin’ person, mind— I’ve been in autopsy a while.” He offers the injured man a bracing pat on the arm. “You’ll probably be alright, though.”

 

“That’s not— shit— comforting,” the boy says.

 

“No, I suppose not,” Murphy agrees. “This is goin’ ta hurt somethin’ nasty, boy. Try yer best not ta scream.”

 

 

*.*

 

 

The kid— Dean, apparently— screams. Or rather, he tries, because the moment he opens his mouth, Seamus is on him, clamping his fingers over his mouth to keep it shut.

 

Eventually he passes out from the pain, which is both better and worse. Better, because the little fuck isn’t squirming, worse because Seamus’ face goes even paler than it already is when he goes limp.

 

Murphy doesn’t blame him. Dean’s lost a lot of blood, from this wound, however it was he got it.

 

Judging by the uniforms, he might have a clue.

 

Half an hour later, the blood’s cleaned from his hands and Dean’s slipped from unconsciousness to fitful, unhappy sleep. Seamus and his other friend are cleaned up and dressed in sweaters and sweatpants, sitting at his tiny kitchen table and sipping tea from cracked mugs.

 

“What was it that got your friend?” Murphy asks, buttering toast for them. “Magic?”

 

Seamus scoffs.

 

“Sharp rock in the water,” he says. “Just under the waves.”

 

Murphy swallows.

 

“Why were you dressed like that? Like… prisoners?”

 

Seamus’ grip on his mug tightens.

 

“‘Cause that’s what we were, ‘til we broke out.”

 

“How much do you know about magic, Dr. Finnegan?” Garrick asks, smiling slightly in thanks when Murphy sets the plate of toast on the table.

 

Murphy shifts.

 

“A bit,” he says. “His Ma explained some about the Wizarding stuff. I know…” Murphy rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I know things have gotten… bad.”

 

Seamus huffs a humorless laugh. “Yeah, that’s a way to put it.”

 

Garrick ignores him.

 

“A man involved in Dark Magic has been terrorizing the Magical World as we know it,” he says. “Part of his reign has included the imprisonment of Muggleborn wizards— the Magical children of non-Magic parents. People like Dean.”

 

Murphy nods again.

 

“Siobhan told me,” he says.

 

Seamus’ head whips up.

 

“You’ve talked to Ma?” he demands. “Where is she?”

 

“Safe,” Murphy says. “She’s staying at Granny Louise’s house.”

 

Seamus’ brow furrows.

 

“Granny Louise’s?” he asks. “In France?”

 

Murphy nods.

 

“She asked to use the place for a while,” he says. “She said things were… going bad.”

 

Seamus swallows, sitting back in his chair.

 

“So she’s alive,” he breathes. “God, she’s _ alive.” _

 

“She is,” Murphy agrees. “Now, back to the original question— why do you look like prisoners? Where were you that you had to break out?”

 

“... Azkaban,” Garrick says when it becomes clear Seamus isn’t going to answer. “The Wizarding prison. It is under the Dark Lord’s control.”

 

Murphy’s heart sinks.

 

Well, fuck.


	7. Chapter 7

The Dark Lord smells like blood, even if he looks like he’s just returned from a stroll through the gardens. Regardless, Luna smiles anyway, doing her best to curtsy despite her round belly.

 

“My Lord, we did not expect you,” Draco says from beside her, catching her arm to keep her from toppling.

 

“I am aware,” the Dark Lord says. “However, I found myself with the time, and thought it prudent to collect on an invitation made by your wife.”

 

“My Lord?”

 

“Our Lord is referring to my invitation to tea,” Luna says, placing a soothing hand on Draco’s arm. “I am surprised you remembered, my Lord. It was many months ago, now.”

 

“I simply haven’t had the time.” Voldemort smiles lipless mouth pulling into something uncomfortable and unsuited to the glamour he wears. “Draco, you may go. We don’t require your presence.”

 

Luna feels Draco stiffen beside her. She presses a kiss to his cheek.

 

“Go back to bed,” she says. “I don’t want to keep you awake after such a long night.”

 

Draco looks like he wants to refuse, but her eyes sharpen when they meet his, a quiet demand in her gaze. She won’t allow him to get into the middle of her own folly, she just won’t.

 

Swallowing, he turns his attention back to the Dark Lord and bows.

 

“As you will, my Lord,” he says, just shy of curt. “Luna, should you require me, I’ll be in my study.”

 

She smiles.

 

“Not a moment’s rest,” she says, shaking her head as if she isn’t aware of the real reason for Draco’s refusal to return to their rooms. “Very well. My Lord, do you have a preference for your tea?”

 

Luna doesn’t watch Draco leave, but she knows the moment he goes, because that’s when the Dark Lord’s focus turns entirely to her.

 

“Oolong, if you have it,” he says.

 

Luna nods and snaps her fingers. A moment later, Iggy appears.

 

“Oolong tea, please,” she says. “And— my Lord, have you eaten?”

 

The Dark Lord’s mouth twists up with amusement.

 

“I have not,” he admits.

 

“And some sandwiches,” she adds.

 

“Yes, Mistress.” Iggy disappears with a pop.

 

“I hope you don’t mind ham, my Lord,” Luna says. “It’s become a regular part of my diet, since…” she gestures down at the prominent bulge under her robes. “Father said my mother got the oddest cravings, during her pregnancy.”

 

Voldemort arches an eyebrow.

 

“If I recall correctly, Narcissa would eat nothing but pickled eggs,” he says. “The smell was… memorable.”

 

Luna hums thoughtfully.

 

“I suppose it could be worse than ham,” she says after a moment. “I can’t stand pickled anything, really— ah, thank you, Iggy.”

 

The house elf settles everything on the small table between them, bowing deeply before disappearing again.

 

“You thank your house elves,” the Dark Lord remarks, lifting his teacup carefully.

 

Ah. Shit. That’s not what Pureblood ladies are supposed to do.

 

“It’s a lot of work to pay attention to who I ought not give courtesy to,” she says, affecting her usual dreaminess to the best of her ability. “And I’ve found that this particular elf’s service has improved greatly since the introduction of such manners.”

 

“How so?”

 

Luna shrugs delicately.

 

“Less self-flagellation has led to an overall better physical condition, I’ve found,” she says. “And Iggy is happier in doing her work when she believes she is valued.”

 

“Does she, now?”

 

Luna nods, pretending obliviousness at the Dark Lord’s clear incredulity.

 

“A child is quite easily manipulated with such techniques— anybody with limited mental faculties is,” she explains, cringing inwardly at the words. “Punishment only goes so far, you see— it only leads to resentment in one’s inferiors. Or students, in the late Professor Umbridge’s case.”

 

“I have heard the name.”

 

Luna’s nose crinkles.

 

“Horrid woman,” she says. “How they let a woman like her teach at Hogwarts, I’ll never know. She told us we weren’t to use our wands, you know— in a Defense class, can you imagine? And her punishments…” Luna trails off, pulling back her sleeve to reveal a light scar on the back of her hand. “Blood Quills.”

 

“‘I must not speak of imaginary creatures’,” the Dark Lord reads. “What on earth is she talking about?”

 

“My father and I believe in the existence of several Magical creatures that the greater Wizarding World does not,” Luna explains, hiding away the scar again. “She took offense to such _ frivolity.” _

 

“Such frivolity has no place in school,” Voldemort points out.

 

“It isn’t silly to believe in creatures we have no proof for,” Luna says. “Until Scamander’s research proved the existence of the Diricawl, we believed as the Muggles did— that they were extinct, non-Magical creatures. Who’s to say that Nargles aren’t real, or Heliopaths?”

 

“... I do suppose you have a point,” he says. “What on earth is a Nargle?”

 

Brightening at the safety of the topic, Luna launches into the explanation, citing the research her parents had gathered prior to her birth and the various travels of certain, more adventurous Quibbler contributors. To her surprise, the Dark Lord listens with an almost thoughtful look on his face, his glamour thinning in as more of his focus is turned to the topic.

 

Eventually, the tea is drunk. Their sandwiches are eaten. Iggy clears away the table without them noticing, to engrossed in the topic of so-called ‘imaginary’ Magical creatures.

 

“I had no idea such a subject even existed,” he says when the conversation finally winds down. “The very idea of such contention… over the existence of Magical creatures.”

 

“It defies logic,” Luna agrees. “I mean, we’re Magical! We exist in defiance of the mundane.”

 

Voldemort smiles at her. She thinks he might have a mustache hiding under that snakeskin.

 

“Indeed we do,” he says, rising to his feet. “And with that, I must go. You make an excellent hostess, Mrs. Malfoy. Perhaps we ought to host our next meeting with you at the helm.”

 

Please don’t.

 

“I think Narcissa might take offense, my Lord” she says lightly. “Besides, I doubt I have the space for everyone. Perhaps a garden party or some such, when the weather gets better.”

 

“You really ought to look into upgrading,” the Dark Lord says. “Such a small home is ill-suited to a woman of status.”

 

“It seemed to be enough for just the two of us when it was first purchased,” Luna says, a little ruefully. “But with a little one on the way…”

 

“A boy or a girl?”

 

“Girl,” Luna says. “I suppose we’ll try for a boy when I’m able.”

 

“While an heir is always a necessity, the Malfoys have not had a daughter in their line for a long time,” Voldemort says. “She will be cherished.”

 

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Luna says. “It has been a pleasure having you, my Lord.”

 

“It was a pleasure to come,” he says. “I was correct in thinking you would be an excellent conversationalist.”

 

“I believe the word you used was ‘amusing’,” Luna says, a little wry.

 

The Dark Lord— laughs. He laughed. Luna made him laugh.

 

“Indeed I did,” he agrees. “You are far sharper than you appear, Mrs. Malfoy.”

 

“I’m a Ravenclaw, my Lord,” she says. “I’ve been told we’re considered a bright bunch.”

 

He chuckles, and— Merlin, that’s odd.

 

“If you are not opposed, I would come for tea again,” he says.

 

“Of course,” Luna says, shoving down the ‘not on your life’ that threatens to bubble up her throat. “You are always welcome, my Lord.”

 

She walks him to the apparition point, just beyond the patio, and waits calmly for him to disappear in a cloud of smoke. Once she can’t see him anymore, she slumps, gasping as her nerves catch up to her.

 

She needs to find her husband.


	8. Chapter 8

Draco’s panic is real, and it’s reasonable, and  _ did he really just leave his incredibly pregnant wife alone with the Dark Lord himself? _

 

He did. Because he had no other option. Because he’s a coward.

 

He settles himself in his study because that’s where his liquor cabinet is. He needs some Firewhisky, one glass big enough to calm his nerves without putting himself into a stupor.

 

He spills it over his fingers, his hands shake so badly as he pours. It smokes where it touches his skin, but he doesn’t care, settling himself into his armchair before downing half the glass in one gulp.

 

The Dark Lord is in his house. There’s nothing worse than that, he knows from living with his parents. The Dark Lord’s at his house, likely trying to convince his wife to take the Mark, Draco’s essentially powerless, Daphne’s letterbox is glowing—

 

Wait, what?

 

Frowning, Draco pushes aside the papers stacked on top of the box. Daphne never mails him and indeed, the runes marking her connection aren’t glowing, but the runes connecting his other contact, the one he doesn’t know.

 

He’s never made contact with his anonymous… whatever he is. Daphne promised he would be an ally should it come to that. An ally of hers, which could mean an ally of the Weasleys.

 

As time goes by, Draco thinks he cares less and less.

 

He taps the glowing rune and removes the lid with careless fingers, finding nothing but a thin sheet of parchment— not even an envelope to pretend normality. Brow furrowing, Draco lifts the parchment into the light.

 

It’s… a list. Names, ages, and addresses, all written in careful, neat print.

 

Underneath, in not as neat handwriting, is a message.

 

_ Daphne said you could help me. These children will be Snatched within the week if no one saves them. Please, help them. _

 

There’s no signature, but Draco would have to be stupid to have expected one. It would, however, be nice to know who it was he was cursing when he looks over the list again.

 

How dare they ask this of him? How dare they be so weak? How dare they look at a suicide mission and pass it along to a man whose very existence is balanced on being just Dark enough, just loyal enough, just inconspicuous enough?

 

The anxiety is back tenfold. Draco could see his entire family dead for having this piece of scrap parchment. He could see them tortured at the hands of the Dark Lord himself, just because some jumped up bastard found a leak and passed it along.

 

He should destroy it. Immediately.

 

… Immediately.

 

It’s Luna’s fault that the list hasn’t burst into flames in his hands already. She’s a soft creature, and it’s starting to rub off on him.

 

Scowling, folds the parchment into quarters and shoves it between the pages of his accounts book. Now’s not the time to think of such things— after all, he still has a Dark Lord sitting in his observatory with his wife.

 

No, there’s no need to think about that list. Not now.

 

…

 

Stop thinking about the list, Draco.

 

…

 

Draco.

 

Draco, _ stop. _

 

“You need another drink,” he mutters to himself, pushing himself to his feet. “One more, just a little one.” 

 

He listens to himself on that point, at least, and promptly pours himself a bit more Firewhisky. Too much, if he’s honest.

 

 

*.*

 

 

When Luna finally comes for him, in the wee hours of the morning, he’s dozing lightly on his desk, glass having fallen onto the plush rug under his feet. He hands are cold and gentle when she rouses him.

 

“Let’s get you back into bed, dear,” she murmurs as he starts to life.

 

“Huh— what— the Dark Lord! Is he still here?”

 

“No.” Luna smiles at him. “I sent him off about twenty minutes ago.”

 

Draco grunts, trying to focus his eyes and collect his thoughts without disrupting the dull throb forming in the back of his skull.

 

“What did he want from you?” he gets out, pushing himself to his feet.

 

“Tea,” Luna says, frowning slightly. “Tea and conversation, I suppose. We talked about Nargles.”

 

“You what?”

 

“Honestly.” Luna smiles. “He seemed intrigued.”

 

Of course he would, Draco thinks as Luna slips her hand around his middle and leads him back toward their bedroom. He’s madder than Luna could ever be.

 

Idly, as he settles back into bed and Luna curls up as best she can beside him, he thinks about the list he’d been sent.

 

He won’t do anything about it, he decides. He’ll toss the parchment into the fire tomorrow and wash his hands of such a messy business.

 

Draco’s going to do what’s worked so far— he’s going to keep his head down, keep himself busy, and survive.

 

 

*.*

 

 

**_May 7th, 1998_ **

 

 

“Toxicology reports have come back negative.”

 

Bishop blinks.

 

“Wait a minute,” he says. “You’re telling me that a body found in a bloody drugs house is clean?”

 

Dr. Finnegan shoots him a sour look.

 

“Are ya fuckin’ deaf, Rosie?” he asks, arms crossed. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Judging by hair tests, she never touched anything stronger than a bit a’ grass in the last year.”

 

“Then what the fuck was in that vial?” Bishop demands. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t something.”

 

Something odd flickers across Dr. Finnegan’s face. He looks back to the body between them.

 

“Something decorative,” he says. “Plant dyes and gelatine. Looks like Clearwater might’ve been an artist of some kind.”

 

“What about that stick she had in her pocket?” Nott asks, notepad in his hand. “Anything there?”

 

“Also decorative, judging by the carvings,” Dr. Finnegan says. “A bit of shined up walnut.”

 

“That’s a wand wood,” Nott says. “Was she a part of something occult?”

 

“How the fuck would you know that?” Bishop asks, frowning at his new partner.

 

Nott shrugs.

 

“My granny was into all that stuff,” he says. “Used to tell us stories about how her mum was a witch during the war. Walnut’s good for healing, I think.”

 

Dr. Finnegan eyes him, seemingly unimpressed.

 

“Well, it did her not a lick of good here,” he says, turning back to Bishop. “Cause of death unknown, possible heart problems, though it seems unlikely at her age. She’s underweight, but not to the point that it could cause any real issue. All in all, she’s in near perfect health for a kid on the street.”

 

“Yeah, except for the fact she’s dead,” Bishop mutters. “Thanks, Murphy. Tell me if you figure anything else out.”

 

“Sure, I’ll just conjure up a few clues for ya while ya go for lunch,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Last I checked, that was your job, Rosie.”

 

Bishop ignores him, turning on his heel and walking out.

 

“Er…” Nott glances between his partner and Dr. Finnegan before offering the latter an awkward smile. “Thanks, Doc.”

 

Dr. Finnegan grumbles, already turning away, leaving Nott to do nothing but follow his partner out.

 

“Doctor Finnegan seemed a bit off,” Nott says, jogging to catch up with Bishop’s long strides.

 

“He’s forensics,” Bishop grunts. “They’re all like that. Comes with having no one to talk to but dead people.”

 

“Yeah, I suppose so— but didn’t he seem, I dunno, grumpy?”

 

“He’s Irish, you stupid fuck. They’re all grumpy.”

 

“That’s rude.”

 

Bishop flashes him a mocking smile.

 

“Welcome to homicide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been picturing Bishop as played by Jason Statham, if anyone wanted a face for him. Nott, I've decided, is played by Stephan James. Murphy Finnegan is played by Gabriel Byrne.
> 
> Please make my fanmovie.


	9. Chapter 9

**_September 13th, 1999_ **

 

 

Hagan’s apartment is, in a word, relaxing. What should be a one-bedroom matchbox in the middle of San Francisco has been expanded into a three bedroom, two bath, living room, dining room, professional kitchen, and greenhouse. _ And  _ it has a balcony.

 

All for like, a grand.

 

It’s a comfortable place to be in, too. Lots of bright colors and open windows and soft, squishy couches. Granted, there are a lot of slightly-less-than-sentient plants scattered around the place that like to tug at Marlowe’s hair, but they’re always gentle, much like their owner.

 

Hagan doesn’t even look up when Marlowe waltzes in, settled comfortably on the couch between his potted Devil’s Snare (which he kept in a magically shadowed corner for its comfort) and Humphrey, his overweight rottweiler. The dog huffs but doesn’t fight when Marlowe shoves him over, rolling instead to loll his head into Marlowe’s lap.

 

“Hiya, Hagan.”

 

“Did you speak to Carlotta?”

 

Marlowe pushes out his lower lip in a childish pout.

 

“Wow. I come back just for you and I don’t even get a ‘hi’ back. Didn’t you miss me at all, Hagan?”

 

Hagan arches an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips.

 

“Hi, Marlowe,” he says obediently. “Did you speak to Carlotta?”

 

Marlowe rolls his eyes, collapsing more comfortably into Hagan’s side.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s off the team.”

 

“That’s a little harsh.”

 

“You’re just soft,” Marlowe says, scratching behind Humphrey’s ears absently. “She’s been having trouble understanding her role in our enterprise. She’s been warned on numerous occasions, by me and by you, to pull back on the sensationalism, and has yet to actually turn in something we could use. We don’t have time for that sort of thing, not with what we’re trying to accomplish. What’cha readin’?”

 

Hagan shows him the cover.

 

_ “Danger Gardening: Guard Your Home From Trespassers and Enemies,”  _ he reads. “You worried about that sort of thing?”

 

“Better safe than sorry,” he says, shrugging. “Have you gone over the showtimes yet?”

 

“No— I figured I’d do it with you.”

 

Hagan nods like he expected it and reaches for a binder under his feet.

 

“Nighttime is where most of our ad money’s going to be coming from,” he says. “Most of it’s Muggle, for now, but from three am to six we’ll be featuring… vacuum cleaners and home gyms. Before that— meaning two to three, we’ll be playing _ Allegra’s Mystery Magic Theater.” _

 

“What are the movies we’ve filmed her commentary for?”

 

“So far? Er… _ The Craft, Practical Magic, The Dark Crystal, _ and _ Labyrinth.” _

 

“We’re going to need to go older.”

 

“I know. But Allegra wanted to do these first.” Hagan smirks. “They annoy her.”

 

Marlowe rolls his eyes and Hagan moves on.

 

“Six is the morning news. It runs for an hour, then moves onto _ Bloodink and Friends.” _

 

“I love goblin names,” Marlowe says, sighing. “Especially when you think of how sweet a girl she is.”

 

“Yes, yes, we all know about your crush,” Hagan says. “Anyway, that runs until eight o’clock, then moves on to _ Mornings with Monica Broomesmith.  _ She’ll be having Antonio Banderas on— and you, of course. Apparently he’s a big fan of your books.”

 

“Really?” Marlowe twirls a stray strand of his hair thoughtfully. “Well, I mean, I’m flattered.”

 

“I’m sure you are,” Hagan says dryly.

 

“He’s so handsome.”

 

“He is.”

 

“And _ The Thirteenth Warrior…” _

 

“I know.”

 

Marlowe sighs dreamily.

 

“I’ll be glad to talk to him,” he says.

 

“Of course you will,” Hagan says easily. “Latin lover is definitely your type.”

 

 

“Isn’t it, though?” He straightens, grinning brightly. “So, what’s for dinner?”

 

“I was thinking sushi.”

 

“Really? I was feeling Indian.”

 

“We can have that, too.”

 

“Great!” Marlowe pushes himself to his feet, reaching for the telephone. “Usual place?”

 

Hagan hums. “Usual order, too.”

 

Nodding, Marlowe goes for the menu drawer, bringing out the correct menu and tapping in the phone number.

 

Evenings like this are what Marlowe lives for, in all honesty. These quiet little interludes with Hagan between press conferences and interviews. All he needs is for Hagan to get with the program and relax with him… the guy’s just work, work, work, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, four weeks a month, twelve months a year…

 

You get the point.

 

Delivery on the way, Marlowe settles himself back into position beside Hagan.

 

“Wanna watch a movie?” Hagan asks after a moment.

 

Marlowe grins.

 

“Only if I get to pick.”

 

 

*.*

 

 

**_December 19th, 1999_ **

 

 

Seamus sleeps fitfully in the little trundle bed his father set up beside the couch where Dean was lying, nervous about the lack of protections surrounding his father’s home. They have no wands to do the work, and Garrick has already warned him off the idea of warding the little house. It’d only draw attention, he said.

 

Not if they were strong enough.

 

Regardless, they have no wands. No wands means they’re sitting ducks.

 

They have to move, and soon.

 

Sighing, he shifts on the bed, tugging the blankets up under his chin. They’re  a little worn, but they smell like detergent and cigarettes and they’re thick enough that Seamus can’t feel the cold wind that swirls around the little house. His eyes find Dean’s outline in the dark, find the slow, steady breaths that make the blankets piled on his chest rise and fall with each inhale.

 

Up, down. Up, down. Seamus has never been so grateful to see it.

 

Carefully, so as not to let in the cold, Seamus reaches out from under the blankets to take Dean’s hand. He always ran a few degrees cooler than Seamus himself did— he used to use it as an excuse to slip into Seamus’ bed when it started to get cold at school. That was before Seamus worked everything out, of course— then it just became a perk.

 

He’s still cold to Seamus, even under all those blankets, even if his hands don’t feel quite like they used to. His hands are rough, cracked from cold and ashy under Seamus’ palm. He made jokes— or tried to— when they first were thrown into their cells, something about cocoa butter availability. Seamus didn’t get it, and the jokes all stopped quickly enough.

 

Grip tightening, Seamus keeps his eyes trained on Dean’s form. They’re out, now. They’re safe. Not for long, he’s sure, but that’s alright for now. Tonight’s enough.

 

It has to be.


	10. Chapter 10

Colin never thought he’d branch out into street art, but here he is, splattered with black and gold paint and the collar of his shirt pulled over his nose.

 

With a final hiss of spray, he caps the can and tucks it into his duffle, reaching for the walkie-talkie he has tucked into the pocket of his overalls.

 

“My end’s all tied up. How goes yours?”

 

There’s a crackle of static, and then,

 

_ “Nearly finished. Go back to the Enterprise, I’ll follow in ten.” _

 

Colin’s jaw tightens.

 

“Denny, you know that’s not how it works,” he says. “Protocol—”

 

_ “Protocol can shove it,”  _ Dennis crackles back. _ “And so can Lee. I know what I’m doing.” _

 

“Bull _ shit  _ you do,” Colin says. “I’m coming to you.”

 

“Colin—”

 

Colin shoves the walkie back in his pocket and makes for the safehouse— the new one, anyway.

 

He gets there right as Dennis comes down from the ladder, pink hair tucked carefully under his favorite beanie.

 

“The Woody base is done,” he says shortly, folding the ladder. “Door’s through his boot.”

 

Colin looks up at the mural. Woody’s pistol is pointed at a Grateful Dead skeleton, a bullet frozen in midair between them in a galaxy of star-spattered brick. Above his in spindly writing is the phrase  _ ‘Reach for the Stars!’ _

 

“You’re getting better,” he remarks, helping his brother lift the ladder into the trunk of their black van. “Quicker, too.”

 

Dennis grunts, pushing down the facemask to hang around his neck.

 

“The quote’s wrong,” he says, slamming the doors shut before circling to the passenger’s seat. “They’ll have to say it correctly, for the door to open. And touch the boot, of course.”

 

Colin nods.

 

“I’ll have Lee on it, next broadcast,” he says. “Tomorrow we’ve got to renew the Addams base.”

 

“Why not now?”

 

“It’s nearly dawn.”

 

Dennis hums.

 

“Pub food, then?”

 

Colin sighs.

 

“I guess.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


There are thirty or so safehouses throughout London and its surrounding areas. Seven are in use at any given time, save for the headquarters of Public Enemies Wireless.

 

Headquarters is hidden behind a mural of the USS Starship Enterprise, and can only be entered through the use of a very specific, not-actual quote.

 

“Beam me up, Scotty!”

 

The grate beneath their feet descends like an elevator— a shitty, nearly broken down elevator, that drops and stops suddenly, groaning with the effort of each movement.

 

The Creevey brothers, long since used to it, aren’t even phased, adjusting their grips on their bags of food as they go.

 

The false room is a precaution. So is the second, third, and fourth. It isn’t paranoia if they’re out to get you, after all. They switch around every twenty-four hours or so, each room warded with its own, specific password.

 

Today, they end up in the sword room.

 

“My name is Inigo Montoya,” Colin says flatly. “You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

 

On the off-chance that their headquarters is discovered and a Death Eater manages to get to the fake rooms, should they be unable provide the correct password, the room is set aside as a prison cell, then a gas chamber.

 

The thought always makes Colin shiver— it strikes too close to home. But Dennis added it anyway, because Dennis believes in poetic justice, and Death Eaters? They’re basically Nazis.

 

Grandpa would be proud. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Colin wouldn’t rightly know, seeing as he died in a gas chamber himself.

 

“We brought food,” Dennis says, stepping down into what once was a living room. “And cigarettes. And grass.”

 

“Excellent,” Lee says, not looking up from his notebook. “Set it down somewhere. Kevin! There’s breakfast.”

 

There’s a wordless grunt from behind the desk tucked in the corner, followed by the sound of a pencil sharpener.

 

There’s no space on the coffee table that serves as Lee’s desk. It’s strewn with wires and radio parts, bits and bobs collected from various electronic stores ransacked for the good of the Underground. Dennis doesn’t care either way, shoving a car battery onto the floor and setting down the paper bag.

 

“Roast beef and potatoes,” he says. “Courtesy of McGuinn’s.”

 

“I love that place,” Lee says absently, crossing something out. “Have we a new base?”

 

“Woody base is ready to go. Password’s ‘reach for the skies’.” Dennis collapses into the cushions beside him. “How much longer ‘til broadcast?”

 

“Four hours,” Lee says. “Same as always.”

 

“How’s the piece going, Kev?” Colin asks, leaning over the boy’s shoulder.

 

“‘Oo’, I ‘i’,” Kevin says, leaning back so Colin can see.

 

Colin chokes on a laugh. Kevin Entwhistle was always an odd one, even before Bellatrix cut out his tongue, but he was always an excellent artist— better than Dean, even.

 

His artwork has only gotten better since he found a purpose for— the purpose being to humiliate the one and only Bellatrix Lestrange. And the other Death Eaters, but mostly Bellatrix.

 

The images are… there’s no other word for it besides pornographic. Before everything fell to shit, Kevin had wanted to be a Magical painter, specializing in portraiture. His talent lay in realism, in the making of the potions required to allow things like speech and movement.

 

“Wa’ ‘i’,” he says, waving a hand over the piece. The characters come to life, Bellatrix raising her bare legs to reveal her sex to the viewer as she moans.

 

_ “Please, Master,”  _ the portrait pants. _ “Please, put it in me. I want to feel your scales, please—” _

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Kevin, not again—” Lee starts over Colin’s braying laughter. Kevin rolls his eyes and waves his hand again. The portrait freezes again, no less lewd in its stillness.

 

Kevin draws a scrap of parchment towards himself and scribbles something out before handing it to Colin to read.

 

_ Ernie’s going to stick it on the front doors of the Ministry. Permanent Sticking Charm and all. _

 

“That’s certainly going to gain some attention,” Colin says. “So long as he doesn’t get caught. She’s not going to take kindly to the Magical World seeing an artist’s rendition of her bushy bits.”

 

Kevin smiles meanly.

 

“‘Assa poi’,” he says.

 

Colin thinks it’s a shame that people have so little faith in Hufflepuffs. They could take over the world, if they really wanted.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Implied pedophilia, implied necrophilia, murder of a small child
> 
> The whole second chunk is icky, but there's nothing graphic. Still, if you'd like to skip that bit, the only real thing you'll be missing is Draco's come to Jesus moment. He realizes he's being a dumbass in ignoring Percy's list.

“All done here, boss.”

 

Draco’s mouth is flat, severity in place of neutrality.

 

“Very well,” he says. “One more and we’re done for the evening. Lucas?”

 

“Just a moment, sir.” The bespectacled man reaches into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled stack of orders. “Yes, our last job is… one Fatina Ibn’Falahad, age six, on Gracechurch Street, London.”

 

Fatina. The name seems familiar, somehow.

 

“‘S great we’re getting kids now,” grunts one of Draco’s other subordinates cheerfully. “‘S easy work when they can’t fight.”

 

“Easy work’s easy money,” another agrees.

 

Draco doesn’t want to hear this. One more job and he can go home, back to Luna, away from these...  monsters.

 

_ As if you’re any better,  _ a little voice in the back of his head whispers.

 

“Let’s go,” he orders, drawing his wand. “The quicker we’re done, the quicker you three can be off to the pubs. I’m sure there’s a whore somewhere who’d love to hear about your workload, Morris, but personally, I find it worrying you think so little of our work.”

 

He flicks his wand, enveloping himself in inky black smoke and disappearing into the night’s sky.

 

Nearly done.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The house is dark and quiet, still as any other on the street.

 

It’s not like any other, however. This particular house holds a Mudblood girl, and like all other thieves of magic, she must be put down.

 

Morris goes to handle the girl’s parents. While it isn’t necessary to kill them, well— they’re only Muggles, after all.

 

Lucas follows him to the girl’s room. There’s a nightlight plugged into the wall, patterning the bedroom with stars and revealing an overwhelming amount of pink.

 

“There’s little Fatina,” Lucas says almost tenderly, stepping near silently to the girl’s bed. Fatina is sound asleep, dark curls strewn across her rose-patterned pillow, small mouth slightly open as she breathes. Her fingers are curled into a teddy bear.

 

Fatina… it’s just so familiar. Draco can’t place it— oh, yes he can.

 

That damned list that he should have burned the moment it came to him.

 

“Such a pretty thing, for a Mudblood,” Lucas continues, running his fingers along the edge of her pillow. “I imagine she would have grown up pretty, too. Shame.”

 

His hand trails lower, down to the edge of her blanket. He tugs it gently out from under her elbows, causing her to shift unhappily.

 

Draco’s stomach drops when he sees she’s only wearing a nightshirt.

 

“Not tonight,” he says, because he knows Lucas, knows his… proclivities. “I haven’t the time for your games.”

 

Lucas jerks at his voice, as if he’d forgotten Draco was there. So, unfortunately, does the girl, eyes flying open at a stranger’s voice.

 

“Al’umu?”

 

Draco draws his wand just as her eyes find Lucas in the dark, sleepy and frightened.

 

_ “Avada Kedavra,”  _ he hisses.

 

She drops back onto the pillow without fanfare, almost as if she’d never woken.

 

Lucas straightens.

 

“Apologies, sir,” he says, straightening. “I forgot myself.”

 

Draco draws himself up and thinks of his father, thinks of sharp edges and ice.

 

“See that you do not do so again, Lucas,” he says. “Gather the rest at your leisure. The mission is complete, and I see no reason to waste the rest of my evening here.”

 

“Of course, sir.” Lucas gives him a small bow but doesn’t leave the bed.

 

Draco tries very hard not to think about that as he turns on his heel and leaves.

  
  


*.*

  
  


He Apparates directly into his office, heart racing as he reaches blindly for his accounts book, shaking it until the bit of parchment flutters onto his desk.

 

Draco’s hands fumble when he opens it, tearing the page slightly in his rush.

 

There are thirty-three names on this list. Thirty-two, not counting Fatina.

 

Thirty-two addresses throughout England. He can manage it, he thinks, if he moves quickly enough. If they’re still alive, perhaps he might…

 

He doesn’t know what he can do, but he has to do something. He’ll figure out the rest later.

 

“Draco? Is that you?”

 

Luna’s voice comes through the door, and Draco desperately wants to see her, to speak to her, but he can’t, he can’t, he must—

 

He Disapparates before she can open the door all the way, leaving behind nothing but the flutter of papers.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Luna doesn’t know what’s wrong, but the fear is thick in the wake of Draco’s departure. She can smell it in the air, sour and tinged with copper. She wonders if he’s bleeding.

 

His… his work isn’t something they talk about, but Luna knows what it is he does. She knows by his sleeplessness and his nosebleeds and the guilty slant to his mouth as Luna paints the nursery in Ravenclaw blues and Slytherin greens.

 

Bellatrix calls it mucking. The public calls his people Snatchers.

 

Luna calls it necessary.

 

By doing what he does, he avoids being Marked, the same way that her pregnancy protects her. So long as he seems faithful, so long as he does this duty, he remains untouched. It had been Narcissa’s idea, and Narcissa’s ideas are usually good ones, if unsavory.

 

Unsure of what to do but knowing she won’t sleep again tonight, Luna goes to her studio and settles herself in the chaise lounge Draco had put in when her feet began to swell at the easel.

 

“Mistress, is you needing anything?”

 

Luna sighs.

 

“Tea, please, Iggy,” she says. “And if you could do something about the fireplace—”

 

“Right away, Mistress!”

 

The hearth crackles to life, and Iggy disappears to start the tea, leaving Luna to lean carefully against the arm of the lounge.

 

Stress isn’t good for the baby, Narcissa’s told her it a thousand times. Well, perhaps she’d have less stress if she wasn’t living in a world where she and her husband have personally met the Dark Lord bent on killing off half the Magical population.

 

Iggy returns with tea— chamomile, to try and help Luna go back to sleep. How thoughtful. It won’t help, of course, but she appreciates the gesture.

 

Luna has an intimate knowledge of what it means to be powerless, to be impotent in the face of cruelty. However, this is the first time she has ever been in a position to… to maybe do something about it?

 

The Dark Lord said he might drop by for tea again. If she words things carefully, if she keeps up whatever it is he sees that stays his hand against her, perhaps things might… stop.

 

She shakes her head at the silly thought. Even Dumbledore couldn’t stop the Dark Lord, after all. How on Earth could one seventeen year-old pregnant girl do it? Nobody can stop him. Not anymore.

 

But… but maybe she can curb him. Distract him. He seems to like her. Maybe she can use that.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The wards jerk her out of her doze, alerting her to intruders on the property.

 

Fear makes her go cold at the number. Nine of them, along with Draco. What’s happened? Who does she call? She’s a liability like this!

 

“Luna? Luna, where are you?”

 

Luna swallows. Well, she thinks. If there are people here to kill her, she won’t hold it against them. At the same time, she’s not going to hide. She’s a Malfoy, now, she has her pride.

 

“In the studio,” she says, carefully pulling herself to her feet and straightening her back as much as she can manage.

 

The door flies open, startling her badly enough that she nearly topples.

 

“Draco?”

 

“I need help,” he says. “I— there’s— I’ve no idea what to do with children!”

 

Luna frowns, eyes finding the bundle he has clutched to his chest. At first she’d thought it was some kind of… some kind of shirt, or perhaps his cloak. Now, though, she realizes that there’s a very specific form to the fabric and a little face peeking between the folds.

 

“Draco,” she says, already reaching for the baby. “Where did you get this?”

 

“I—” Draco takes a breath. “I was sent a list, and then one of my targets was a name on the list, and—” he runs a hand through his hair, gesturing helplessly into the hall.

 

Luna looks. Six children stare back at her, two of them carrying babies not much older than the one in her arms. The oldest couldn’t be much more than ten.

 

She turns back to Draco.

 

“These are Muggleborn children,” she says. “Draco, these are Muggleborn children.”

 

“Yes.” He shifts. “I can’t take it anymore, Luna.”

 

“I understand, Draco. It’s just…” she pauses. “We very recently had the Dark Lord pop by for no reason at all for tea in the middle of the night. This isn’t the safest place to keep them.”

 

He winces.

 

“I know, I know,” he says, ringing his hands. “I just— Luna…”

 

She sighs, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek.

 

“I understand,” she says again. “Why don’t you write Daphne about what to do. Are any of you hungry?” she asks the children. “I’ve a bit of cake left over from yesterday, if you like.”

 

“Are you magic too?” Asks a little boy of about seven, chewing on the sleeve of his Transformers pajamas.

 

Luna smiles.

 

“Yes, I am,” she says. “My name’s Luna. What’s your name?”

 

“Roger.”

 

“Well, Roger, would you like some cake? It’s chocolate.”

 

He nods and she puts out a hand. He pulls the sleeve from between his teeth to take it, the spit-wet sleeve dragging across the edge of Luna’s palm.

 

“Everybody hold hands,” she says. “I’ll take you to the kitchens to meet Iggy. She’s an elf, have any of you ever met an elf?”

 

Fascinated, the children obey, the younger ones linking hands while the two older ones follow close behind, clutching their charges.

 

Draco watches them go, an odd mixture of fear and… something at war in his gut. This was a stupid thing to do. He needs to write Daphne.

 

She was always smarter than the rest of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, that was a tough beginning, but hopefully it ended satisfactorily. It was a very uncomfortable scene to write, and I imagine that those of you who read through it were uncomfortable yourselves, but sometimes nasty shit needs to be addressed. That scene will likely be the only time I touch upon the subject of pedophilia, that much I promise you, but sadly, there is a lot of death planned for the rest of this fic. I mean, it's about fighting genocide and corrupt governments, so...


	12. Chapter 12

Fred wakes up alone, which isn’t unusual in and of itself. What is unusual, however, is the darkness. The sun hasn’t come up yet, the streetlights still paint the bedroom yellow, and yet the space beside him is cold.

 

He glances at the clock. One-thirty in the morning, and barely that. So why is he alone?

 

His wife is in her office when he goes to look for her, wrapped in an electric green bathrobe that used to be his. Her hair is loose, tangled from sleep and other bed-related activities.

 

“Daph, what’s going on?” Fred asks, catching the open letterbox on the edge of her desk.

 

“Fred? Oh.” She pushes a strand of hair out of her face. “Sorry, I meant to be in bed by now.”

 

His hand finds the back of her neck, thumb rubbing comfortingly against the soft skin.

 

“What’s going on?” he says again. “Is everyone alright?”

 

Daphne sighs.

 

“Draco Malfoy has just done something incredibly dangerous,” she says. “Something that could see his line extinguished.”

 

“Probably deserves it,” Fred says, shrugging.

 

“I’m sure he does,” she agrees. “But not for this.”

 

She hands him the letter. Fred takes it, noting the expensive parchment and the constantly shifting Malfoy crest letterhead. He suppresses a scoff and turns his attention to the words written.

 

 

_ As mentioned before, the Dark Lord has ordered the deaths of Muggleborn children pre-Hogwarts age. I have nine that were slated for death currently in the care of my wife, thanks to a list forwarded to me by our mutual contact. Nine out of thirty-three. _

 

_ They cannot remain with me. The house is unsafe. _

 

_ Help. _

 

 

“... Fuck,” Fred says. “Isn’t he a Snatcher?”

 

Daphne nods, mouth pressed into a thin line.

 

“He’s put everyone he loves in danger, doing this,” she says. “And his wife’s pregnant with their first. If anyone were to catch them harboring these children…”

 

“... So what do we do?” Fred asks. “What about that ‘mutual contact’? Who is it, by the way?”

 

“...” Daphne tries for nonchalance. “Your brother.”

 

Fred blinks.

 

“I really doubt that,” he says slowly. “‘Cept for Charlie, everyone’s here— no.”

 

She shrugs.

 

“He was staying behind,” she says. “I met him outside of your father’s hospital room at Christmas, and I thought it best to keep in touch.”

 

Fred leans heavily against the desk.

 

“You can’t be serious,” he says. “How the hell could Percy— why does Percy have a letterbox? Why is he contacting  _ Malfoy  _ with it?”

 

“I had them connected before I left,” she says. “And I didn’t tell either of them the other’s identity. I just said… I just said if they needed an ally in Wizarding Britain, they could contact each other.”

 

Fred sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

 

“Slytherin,” he mutters. “Okay, disregarding the fact that you’ve met Percy—  _ saw him at the hospital,  _ even— and didn’t say anything, disregarding Malfoy being the _ git  _ that he is, disregarding the fact that this is probably a trap… there might be kids involved.”

 

“It’s not a trap,” she says. “Draco’s not so stupid as to admit to a connection to Harry Potter— even after all these years, the Dark Lord is obsessed with finding him and finishing the deed.”

 

“... So there’s definitely kids involved.”

 

“Most definitely.”

 

_ “Fuck.” _

 

“What’s going on?” George asks sleepily from the door, rubbing at his eyes. “Something happen?”

 

Daphne sighs.

 

“There’s kids that need to be evacuated,” she says. “My contact saved them from Snatchers.”

 

George frowns, sleepiness evaporating in the face of grim reality.

 

“How many?” he asks.

 

“Nine of ‘em, all under eleven,” Fred says. “And this contact doesn’t know anybody else but Daphne.”

 

George bites his lip.

 

“What about Mum?” he asks. “Sirius has her keyed into the wards, right?”

 

Fred blinks.

 

“Er…”

 

“That could work,” Daphne says thoughtfully. “Your Mum’s under Fidelius, which could work as a holdover until she can move the kids along— that’ll get them out of the house right quick.”

 

“Snape can get into Grimmauld, though,” Fred says. “We can’t draw any attention to her.”

 

“There’s no reason anyone would think of Mum, though,” George says. “She hasn’t been active in years.”

 

“And, since Dumbledore’s dead, the Secret’s been passed on to anybody who was in the Order— which does include her.”

 

“Yeah. And  _ Snape.” _

 

George shrugs.

 

“If he hasn’t gone to check in on the place so far, he’s not going to do it now,” he says. “Dumbledore died what, a year ago now?”

 

Fred sighs.

 

“It just doesn’t seem safe,” he says finally. “I mean, Mum…”

 

“Your mother isn’t safe until she’s firmly on American soil— or at least out of Britain,” Daphne says. “I know it sounds harsh, but we may as well use her so long as she’s there.”

 

“It’ll give her something to do,” George adds, looking at his brother. “I mean, it’s kids, you know? She’d like that.”

 

Fred bites his lip.

 

“... Fine,” he says finally. “Ask her, then.”

 

Daphne reaches out to catch his hand, squeezing it gently.

 

“It’ll be alright,” she says. “Your mother’s made of pretty strong stuff, you know.”

 

“I know. Doesn’t mean I’m not worried.”

 

Daphne nods her understanding and lets go, turning back to her desk.

 

“I’m going to need to talk to Henry tomorrow,” she says. “We’re going to need to find somewhere for these kids to live— and people to take care of them.”

 

“They’ll need paperwork, too,” George adds. “Something Merrick can help with, maybe?”

 

“I’ll write him right now,” Daphne says, hand moving towards her quill.

 

“No, you’ll write him in the morning,” Fred says, slapping her hand away. “Now you’re going to go to bed. You’re going to need your rest while you can still get it, and once you get started on this, you’re not going to stop.”

 

“But I—”

 

“Bed,” Fred says firmly. “March, young lady.”

 

Daphne rolls her eyes.

 

“You’re a bloody menace,” she says, pushing herself to her feet.

 

“McGonagall could’ve told you that,” Fred says cheerfully. “She figured it out years ago.”

 

 

*.*

 

 

Jane wakes up quite suddenly, an odd feeling roiling in her gut. She’s… where is she?

 

“Ah, _ mi reina,  _ did you have a bad dream?”

 

Jane looks over. Luis is sitting cross-legged at the foot of the mattress, charcoal-covered fingers paused on his sketch-pad.

 

“You were sleeping so beautifully,” he tells her, smile not-quite apologetic. “I couldn’t help myself.”

 

Jane hums but doesn’t answer, instead focusing on the odd feeling in her stomach.

 

Luis frowns.

 

“Jane?” he asks. “Is something wrong?”

 

“I…” she shakes her head. “I just have a feeling.”

 

“What sort of feeling?”

 

She gives him a wry smile.

 

“The sort of feeling one becomes accustomed to when your friends are reckless idiots,” she says. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

 

Luis sets aside the pad, moving to crawl across the white sheets, careless of the charcoal stains he leaves behind.

 

“I don’t know, Jane,” he says. “It woke you. Were you having a dream?”

 

She was having a dream, in fact, but it was a lovely one. She’d been having tea with Marie Curie.

 

“Not the sort of dream that makes my stomach upset,” she says. “It doesn’t matter. I probably shouldn’t have eaten just before bed, is all.”

 

Luis shakes his head.

 

“Now, Jane, I don’t know about that,” he says, settling himself against the pillows and reaching out to pull her against his chest. “You seem nervous.”

 

She sighs.

 

“Last time I felt like this, Henry got us all together to talk about leaving England,” she says. “It’s just… I feel like something’s going to change. Drastically. But— that’s silly.”

 

He hums.

 

“Perhaps not,” he says. “I mean, you’re a witch.”

 

She rolls her eyes.

 

“That doesn’t mean I’m a seer,” she says.

 

“Still.” He shrugs. “Maybe you ought to go home tomorrow, see if anything’s happened— for your own peace.”

 

“If I say yes, will you come back to bed?”

 

“Aren’t I in bed now?”

 

Jane smiles when he leans up to kiss her, allowing him to tug her back down into the pillows.

 

She will, of course, listen to his advice. But for right now? She’s quite busy.

 

 

*.*

 

 

Daphne wakes up with the sun and pens two letters— one for Mrs. Weasley, and one for Draco.

 

 

_ Mother, _

 

_ Will you be coming over for Christmas? I know Harry’s invited you, but I don’t know if he’s gotten a response from you yet. We’d love to have you, as always. _

 

_ I’m sorry to say I have a favor to ask of you. A contact of mine in Britain has recently come across a small collection of Muggleborn children that were to be killed by Snatchers. As he is in an awkward political position, he cannot keep the children in his own home, and has asked if it were possible for me to arrange safe passage for them to America. I was wondering if it would be possible for you to meet him and take the children through the Black passages for me? _

 

_ I must warn you, he is a Marked man, but he desperately wants these children out of harm’s way, as quickly as possible. _

 

_ I await your answer, _

_ Daphne _

 

_ P.S. _

_ The twins miss you very much and promise you that they’re getting into all sorts of trouble without you here to keep them in line. _

 

 

_ — _

 

 

_ Draco, _

 

_ I’m working on it. Please send along information on each child so I may prepare accordingly. _


	13. Chapter 13

_ Daphne, _

 

_ It’s lovely to hear from you! I have accepted the invitation, of course— I planned to come on Christmas Eve, but I think I might end up coming in sooner, considering the favor you asked of me. _

 

_ Of course I’d be happy to help. The rumors going around about what happens to Muggleborns these days… it’s monstrous. Anyone willing to help save a child is welcome in my home— Marked or not. _

 

_ There’s a park around the corner from Grimmauld. Have him come there with the children at noon tomorrow and I’ll take them. It’s quite normal for the neighborhood children to play in the snow there, so I doubt anyone would notice a few more. _

 

_ Out of curiosity, who is it I’ll be looking for? _

 

_ Molly _

  
  


_ — _

  
  


_ Draco Malfoy. _

 

_ Daphne _

  
  


_ — _

  
  


_ Oh, my. _

  
  


*.*

  
  


It’s rare for Jane to show up in Henry’s office unless it’s after a show, so the fact that she wanders in around noon should have been his first clue that something was… up. Especially since Luis wasn’t with her.

 

“What’s going on?” he asks when she settles herself on the couch in the corner.

 

Jane shrugs.

 

“Luis thought it would be a good idea for me to come ‘round today,” she says. “I needed to calm my nerves, he said.”

 

“... And naturally coming to a piss-stained bar in the middle of the day was going to do that,” Henry says, arching an eyebrow.

 

Jane gives him a sly smile, something she’d learned from Daphne, Henry’s sure of it.

 

“I do get free drinks whenever I come by,” she points out, digging into the pocket of her jeans. She pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lights two, holding the other one out for Henry to take. “It’s nothing serious. I just felt… you know.”

 

“Not really, no.”

 

She shifts.

 

“You know… unsettled,” she says grasping for the right word. “I felt like… something was changing.”

 

“God, I hope not,” Henry says. Change was never a good thing, in his experience— well, unless change included moving to a new country and starting afresh.

 

“It’s probably nothing,” Jane says comfortingly. “Luis was just worried, is all— he’s taking magic quite seriously, now that he knows.”

 

“Of course he is,” Henry says. “He’s a superstitious sort— or he was. Does it still count as superstition when you know it’s real?”

 

“Fucked if I know,” she says, shrugging. “Oh! Ron said you got the results for your MPTs— how did you do?”

 

Henry grimaces at the memory.

 

“Solid Bs across the board, with an A in Defense,” he says. “I am considered _ magically proficient  _ in Defense, Charms, Warding, Potions, and Runes.”

 

“That’s good,” Jane says, a hint of condescending approval coloring her tone and oh, it’s almost like they’re back in Hogwarts again. “It’s very good, considering they were _ Magical Profiency Tests—  _ God, Americans are so dull when it comes to acronyms. OWLs and NEWTs were amusing, at least, if a bit trite.”

 

“Yes, well, Americans aim for efficiency, even if they miss it by a country mile.”

 

“Point.” Jane stretches her neck over the arm of the couch, chin pointed at the ceiling when she meets his eyes. “So, does this mean you’ll be continuing your studies?”

 

Henry shrugs.

 

“Maybe,” he says. “I’m not in any hurry, though. I’ve got enough on my plate as is, you know?”

 

Jane nods in agreement. Henry has made quite a name for himself over the last few years, buying up properties left and right and renting them out to anyone willing to overlook semi-public Magical feats and the occasional drunk punk asleep on their doorstep. Even keeping prices as low as he has, he’s amassed something of a small fortune, not to mention a reputation for being an attentive and understanding landlord.

 

That isn’t to say he’s a pushover, of course, but if the reason’s good enough, Henry’s been known to give extensions on rent or skip a month altogether. He’s good about those sorts of things.

 

“Still, a Mastery might do you good, in the long run,” she says, absently twirling a braid with a free hand. “In Warding, at least. Then you won’t get shit should somebody actually report Remus and the rest of the pack next time they get rowdy during a full moon.”

 

“You may have a point there,” he agrees, reluctant to think about _ more  _ testing. “I just don’t want to think about that right now.”

 

“Why not? It’s important.”

 

“Because you’re having been nervous enough to come visit out of nowhere has now made me nervous,” Henry says.

 

“Now, that’s not fair,” Jane says. “I still have a room in Bay Street.”

 

“Can you by any chance remember the color of the walls?”

 

“Yellow,” Jane says, sticking out her tongue. “But it’s all nicotine stains.”

 

There’s a quiet knock on the door, almost hidden by the screech of soundcheck and the radio precariously perched on a pile of CDs on the edge of Henry’s desk.

 

Jane arches a smug eyebrow which Henry pointedly ignores.

 

“Come in,” he calls.

 

The door opens and… it’s Daphne.

 

“Shit,” he mutters over Jane’s bark of triumphant laughter.

 

Daphne blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.” Henry waves her in. “What do you need?”

 

“Why do I need to need something?” she asks, shutting the door behind her. “I could just be visiting for the pleasure of your company.”

 

Henry’s lip twitches.

 

“If that were the case, you’d come to the house after I closed the bar,” he says. “You know my hours better than anyone.”

 

Daphne sighs, pulling the white fur jacket tighter around her willowy frame.

 

“You know that thing we talked about?” she says. “Last time I came to see you here?”

 

“How could I forget?” Henry asks, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve four renovated houses waiting for tenants.”

 

Daphne brightens.

 

“Really?” she says. “Well, that simplifies a few things, then. We’ll be having guests coming in soon.”

 

“What on Earth are you two talking about?” Jane interjects, frowning.

 

Henry sighs.

 

“Daphne has been in contact with a few old classmates,” he says. “She’s been working on trying to get people who might be at risk out of the country.”

 

“I’ve had no luck so far,” she admits. “This sort of… fell into my lap.”

 

“Oh. Well, that’s very noble of you, Daphne. A bit Gryffindor-like, I’d say.” Jane grins at Daphne’s grimace. “So, who is it?”

 

“That’s the complicated bit,” Daphne says.

 

Henry frowns.

 

“How complicated?”

 

“The Muggleborns are all under ten,” she says, because it’s easier to get potentially unpleasant news all out at once when it comes to Henry. “In order to prevent accidental magic and the creation of Obscurials that might hinder the Purity Act, Snatchers are now targeting pre-Hogwarts age children and their families.”

 

“How could they—” Jane stops. “How could they possibly know who the Muggleborns are? Their names aren’t even known until their Hogwarts letters are sent!”

 

Daphne shakes her head.

 

“The Muggleborn Offices have all the names on file from the moment the children are born,” she says. “It’s part of an old enchantment. The problem is, once a Muggleborn child turns eleven, the assumption is that they’re either at Hogwarts— where school records will be kept on file until they’re of legal age— or they have decided against joining the Magical World. Either way, there’s no reason for the Ministry to track them, save for bouts of accidental magic.”

 

“So they’re killing them young, before they can learn to control their magic or find some other way of fighting back.” Henry shakes his head. “Alright, fine. When are they coming?”

 

“Molly’s collecting them from my contact tomorrow,” Daphne says. “I doubt it’ll be more than two or three days.”

 

Henry nods.

 

“The house on Deacon Street will probably be best,” he says. “It’s a grand old thing— big enough for a few kids. How many did you say there were?”

 

“Nine.”

 

“Nine?” Henry purses his lips thoughtfully. “How do you think Fleur would feel about adoption? She and Bill always wanted a big family.”

 

“Going from one to ten might be a bit of a shock for her, Henry,” Jane says, but there’s a ghost of a smile threatening to make its way across her face.

 

“That’s not going to work well,” Daphne says, shaking her head. “These kids are from all over the place, and they’ve technically been kidnapped. All of them against just her and Bill could be overwhelming.”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“... You didn’t say they’d been kidnapped,” Henry says, and— oh, sometimes Daphne forgets how intimidating he can be.

 

Still, she stands her ground.

 

“They were going to be killed,” she says. “The options were to try and convince the family— bloody unlikely, if you ask me— or take them before they could be hurt. And it wouldn’t just be murder, Henry, the sort of people Draco works with—”

 

“Draco?” Jane says. “Your contact is _ Draco Malfoy?” _

 

Ah, shit. She shouldn’t have let that slip. Daphne’s getting lax.

 

“He’s been working as a Snatcher to avoid the Mark since he left school,” Daphne says. “He’s the one that got wind of these kids.”

 

Jane shakes her head, looking to Henry.

 

“It could be a trap,” she says. “That snake-faced bastard’s still looking for you, Henry, everyone knows it—”

 

Henry waves a dismissive hand.

 

“Malfoy’s a coward,” he says flatly. “He wouldn’t risk his life in a half-assed attempt to locate me— besides, the Wizarding World still thinks we’re in Australia, for fuck’s sake.”

 

“He risked his life saving a bunch of Mudblood brats,” Jane points out, wrinkling her nose at the word.

 

“Yeah, but you forget— he’s a squeamish bastard, too.” Henry looks at Daphne. “Find out the ages, we’ll see what we can do with them.”

 

“Oh, I already have that.” Daphne reaches into her bra and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Names and ages.”

 

She hands over the paper and Henry takes it, eyes scanning the page carefully.

 

“Some of these… these are babies.”

 

Daphne nods, lips pursed.

 

“Taken from hospital beds,” she says. “It’ll be too much work for Fleur alone.”

 

“This… this could get us into a lot of shit, Daphne.”

 

“I know.”

 

Henry sighs.

 

“Rocky and Joey have been trying for a baby for the last year or so,” he says. “She might be willing to take one.”

 

“It might not be wise to put the children with Muggles,” Jane says. “I mean, they know, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe…”

 

“It’s what we can do for now,” Henry says, shaking his head. “We’ll sort it properly once they’re all settled.”

 

“Family meeting,” Daphne murmurs.

 

“Family meeting,” Henry agrees wryly. “We’ll be eating outside tomorrow, I think.”


	14. Chapter 14

“Mr. M, can we go play by the swings?”

 

Draco jerks at the question, looking down at the little girl seated beside him.

 

“No,” he says shortly. “We’re not here for fun, girl.”

 

The girl straightens.

 

“My _ name  _ is Chanelle,” she says, frowning.

 

“... Chanelle, then.” Draco turns his gaze forward. “Sit quietly and wait. You’re the oldest, you have an example to set for the others.”

 

The girl frowns, but settles.

 

A minute passes.

 

“Why are we here, Mr. M?” she asks.

 

Draco grits his teeth.

 

“We’re here to meet a contact.”

 

“Oh.” Chanelle blinks. “A friend?”

 

“... I rather doubt it.” Draco shifts. “But they’re nice to children. They won’t hurt you.”

 

“They could try,” Chanelle says. “I’ve got three big brothers, bigger than _ you,  _ even, and they _ love  _ me.”

 

Of course she does, Draco thinks sourly. Or she did. Those brothers of hers may be dead already.

 

“Just be quiet, will you?” he says. “Please.”

 

Chanelle smiles.

 

“It’ll be quieter if you let me and the twins play by the swings,” she says. “I don’t think the babies’ll be much for talking.”

 

Oh, for the love of—

 

“Fine, then,” he says. “Don’t leave my sight.”

 

Chanelle lets out a little whoop of joy and taps the little boy to sitting beside her. He and his twin smile brightly at her, leaning over to pass on the good news to the other children before pushing themselves to their feet and dashing towards the swings, Chanelle and the others hot on their heels.

 

Draco is left alone with the babies, who are— thanks to Luna— well fed and sound asleep, nestled in a wide basket of blankets and warming charms.

 

It’s eleven-fifty-eight in the morning. His contact, whoever they may be, should be arriving soon.

 

He dearly hopes he isn’t about to be killed.

 

In an effort to put the thought out of his mind, he turns his eyes to the children. He has no idea what Luna said to them— what she explained or didn’t explain— but none of them seem too bothered about the fact that they haven’t seen their parents. 

 

Perhaps she spelled them, or put soothing potions in their breakfast, he thinks idly, watching as one of the younger boys— Roger— shows the twins how to make snowballs.

 

From a distance, they all seem like perfectly normal Wizarding children, dressed in carefully resized winter robes from Luna’s closet. No one would even be able to tell that they weren’t Pureblood, save for perhaps the mundane playset that they were climbing.

 

“Children are always happy creatures, don’t you think?” Someone says from behind him. “So unaware of the horrors of our world. At least, these ones are.”

 

He turns, wand already in hand, to look into the face of an older, red-haired woman.

 

Mrs. Weasley offers him a small smile.

 

“No need to worry, dear, Daphne told me who I’d be meeting,” she says. “I must say, I was surprised to read your name in that letter.”

 

Carefully, Draco forces his grip on his wand to relax.

 

“Mrs. Weasley,” he says, honorific odd on his tongue. “You’re my contact, then?”

 

“I am,” she admits. “Are all of the little ones—”

 

“Yes.”

 

She nods.

 

“Good. Well, come on, call them back.”

 

Draco sighs and gets to his feet.

 

“Chanelle! Bring everyone back!”

 

There’s a collection of moans that can be heard, but the children troop back to the benches obediently.

 

“We barely got to play at all,” Chanelle complains the moment she’s close enough. “That’s not fair, Mr. M.”

 

“I can’t even begin to care,” Draco says flatly. “Children, this is Mrs. Weasley. She’s going to take you somewhere safe.”

 

All eyes immediately go to Mrs. Weasley, who smiles.

 

“Hello,” she says. “Oh, look at you all— I bet you’re cold. How about some tea?”

 

“Yes, please,” Jalil says around his thumb, peering up at Mrs. Weasley with wide, hopeful eyes.

 

Mrs. Weasley claps her hand together.

 

“Excellent,” she says. “Mr. Malfoy, if you would just take that basket? I’m afraid I haven’t the strength to carry it.”

 

“Mrs. Weasley—”

 

But the damnable woman isn’t paying attention to him anymore, already herding the children with a practiced ease in the direction he assumes her home is.

 

Funny. He’d always been under the impression that the Weasleys lived on a… farm, somewhere.

 

Cold fingers wrap around his own, and he looks to see Jalil, patiently waiting for Draco to follow Mrs. Weasley and the others, thumb still in his mouth.

 

Sighing, Draco hooks the basket onto his elbow and follows.

 

This couldn’t possibly end poorly.

  
  


*.*

  
  


There’s some thirty of them grouped around the transfigured tables that take up the eternal-spring of the Bay Street house’s backyard. The Weasleys, Miss Greengrass, the Blacks, the Black-Lupins, the Mongrels, the Gilman Street punks, the Cardy’s Bar punks, the art students that Jane and Luis are attached to… Muggle or Magical, they all know about magic, and that’s what Henry’s looking for when he invites them all to dinner that evening.

 

A sea of colorful hair and cigarette smoke is all that Henry can see when he stands up after dinner to speak, and when he breathes in to speak he realizes that it’s not all cigarette smoke.

 

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together. “As some of you’ve probably already figured out, I’ve called us all together for a reason. The fact is, we’re expecting guests in the next few days. Magical guests.”

 

He pauses to allow that information to seep in. It’s always a big deal when someone joins them— Bill and Fleur had caused quite a stir among the Muggles, mostly because of the introduction of a Veela into the group.

 

“This is a special case,” Henry continues. “As you’re all probably aware, the British Magical community is at war. Has been for a few years, really. A lot of things come with war— in this case, it’s refugees.

 

“We’re getting kids, this time. Not family members or friends, but a group of children who haven’t done anything except have the shit luck of being born to non-Magical people. Now, if they were a bit older, I wouldn’t have any qualms about giving them the house on Deacon Street and being done with it, but the oldest of them is ten, and their parents are probably dead by now.” Henry sighs. “So here’s what I need: those of you who can, please help me take care of these kids. Some of them are newborns, barely a week old. Others are older. Daphne has the full list, if she’d be willing to read it out…”

 

He trails off, looking to the blonde. Nodding, she pushes herself to her feet.

 

“‘Chanelle Davies, ten years old,’” she reads. “‘Curtis and Morris Schwartz, nine years old. Roger Devereaux and Aubrey Dellinger, seven years old. Jalil Muhammad, six years old.’” She looks up. “There’s also three babies, all of them between two and three days old.”

 

There’s an uncertain murmur that ripples through the group as Daphne takes her seat. Henry understands it. None of them are particularly old— hell, half of them, himself included, aren’t even out of their twenties— and to take on the responsibility of a child is… a lot to ask for.

 

Finally, one of the Gilman punks raises a hand. Julian Ratt, or whatever he calls himself these days. He changes his name quite often.

 

“The Schwartz boys, are they Jewish?” he asks.

 

Henry looks at Daphne, who shrugs.

 

“I don’t know,” she says.

 

Julian hums.

 

“Well, if they are, my Mom might take ‘em,” he says. “My sister’s about to leave for college, you know, and she gets lonely without us around to feed. Might be good for the kids, too, if they are— Jewish traditions are pretty much the same everywhere, you know?”

 

“We’ll find out as soon as we can,” Henry promises. “Is your mother aware of magic?”

 

Julian shakes his head.

 

“If she is willing to take them, she must be made aware,” Henry says. “It might not be safe for them otherwise.”

 

“I’ll talk to her,” Julian promises. “So long as somebody doesn’t mind coming with.”

 

Ron raises a hand to volunteer.

 

“I’ll go,” he says. “Mrs. Abrams likes me. It might not be as bad a shock.”

 

“We can take a baby,” Rocky pipes up from beside Ron, leaning into Joey. “We’ve got the money, what with Joey working at Freight and Salvage…”

 

Henry catches Daphne’s smile from the corner of his eye as she marks something down on the paper.

 

“That’ll be perfect,” he says. “Do you need any help setting up? Is there anything you might need?”

 

Rocky shakes her head. “We can handle it.”

 

That’s good. That doesn’t mean Henry or Ron won’t be showing up on their doorstep tomorrow morning to Magically expand the place.

 

“We’ll take one too, then,” Sirius says, raising his hand. “Right, Remus?”

 

Remus stares.

 

“I— you never said you wanted children,” he says, eyes wide.

 

Sirius shrugs.

 

“Didn’t think I needed to,” he says. “Besides, don’t think I haven’t seen you playing with the Brinker kids down the street when you have the time. You want them, too.”

 

Remus blinks, then lets the corners of his mouth quirk up into a smile.

 

“What do you say to two?” he asks quietly, arching an eyebrow.

 

“Not two babies,” Sirius says immediately. “Too many diapers. But I wouldn’t mind an older one, either. Henry?”

 

“One baby, one of the others,” Henry repeats. “Got it.”

 

“Which one?” Daphne asks. “A boy, or a girl?”

 

“Er…” Sirius looks at Remus.

 

“The Dellinger girl,” Remus says. “Seven seems manageable, don’t you think?”

 

Daphne writes it down.

 

“That leaves one more baby, Chanelle, Roger, and Jalil,” she says, looking up.

 

“I’ll take Jalil.” O-yo, a burly young man with red-tipped dreadlocks and an easy smile says, raising his hand. “But I don’t have the space back at my place.”

 

“You can stay at Deacon Street,” Henry says, waving a hand. “Don’t worry about that.”

 

O-yo nods.

 

“Mind if the little missus joins?” he asks. “She knows about this sort of thing, too— her momma was descended from one of them voodoo queens.”

 

Henry arches an eyebrow.

 

“You’re going to adopt a kid without talking to your… you’re _ married?” _

 

O-yo grins.

 

“As of two nights ago, yeah,” he says. “You remember Lisa, from the coffee shop on Rosewood?”

 

“You— _ really?  _ Okay.” Henry pauses. “Is she going to be okay with you showing up with a little kid out of nowhere.”

 

O-yo shrugs.

 

“She’s seen me do weirder.”

 

And… yeah, he’s probably right.

 

“We can take another baby,” Fleur says, glancing at Bill. “Can’t we?”

 

“We were planning on having another, anyway,” he says, smiling a little. “It’s a bit sooner than expected— I figured we’d have nine months, at least.”

 

There’s a rumble of laughter, punctuated by a quiet argument that Henry can’t understand.

 

That would be because it’s in Spanish.

 

“Jane?” George asks, the picture of polite curiosity. “Mind telling us what the fuck is going on over there?”

 

“In English, preferably,” Fred adds. “That goes for you too, Luis.”

 

Luis looks up, smiling widely.

 

“Very sorry, Freddie,” he says, straightening. “We were just talking.”

 

“A bit lively for plain old talk,” Jenny remarks from under Ron’s arm.

 

Jane bites her lip.

 

“We can’t take a kid,” she says, more to Luis than anybody else. “We’re not financially stable enough to handle it. We don’t even live together!”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“Janey, I hate to break it to you, but you sort of live together,” Ron says helpfully.

 

“You have for the past three years,” Ginny agrees.

 

“We…” Jane sighs. “We still don’t have the money.”

 

“Sure you do,” Henry says easily. “I should know, seeing as I pay your allowance.”

 

‘Allowance’ is probably the wrong word for it, but it’s the best one he can think of. He doesn’t know if there’s a word for forcing money on people who by all rights are supposed to have it. She’s a ward of Potter house, same as Ron.

 

Though, he has trouble taking family money, too. It’s an unpleasant trend among his siblings.

 

“Well,” Daphne says, looking over her list. “That only leaves Roger Devereaux left.”

 

There’s a long pause.

 

“I’ll take him,” Fred says from his seat beside her. “So long as my wife agrees, of course.”

 

Daphne looks momentarily dumbstruck. It’s clear she hadn’t thought of the possibility.

 

“I— _ really?”  _ she says.

 

Fred nods.

 

“Yeah, why not?” he says, shrugging. “I like kids.”

 

“I—” Daphne goes quiet. “Okay.”

 

Fred beams at her as she sits back down, hand looping around her shoulders and squeezing.

 

“Well,” Astoria says. “I wasn’t expecting to be told I’m going to be an aunt like this, but I suppose ‘refugee of the Dark Lord’s war’ is as good a reason as any to become a parent, Daph.”

 

Henry grins.

 

“With that out of the way, I suppose we can get back to our regularly scheduled program,” he says. “Ron, how about some music?”


	15. Chapter 15

Dean wakes up warm, which is odd. He hasn’t been warm in a long while, now… he doesn’t know, exactly how long, but then, time doesn’t really exist in Azkaban.

 

The next odd thing he realizes is that he’s covered in blankets— proper ones, not the striped sheet he was issued upon his entry into Azkaban. Frowning, Dean sits up, and finds he almost immediately regrets it.

 

His leg is throbbing, and he doesn’t know why.

 

“Dean!” Seamus’ face— and it is his face, beautiful and paler than Dean’s ever seen it before— appears, long-fingered hands finding Dean’s shoulders and pushing him down. “Jesus, Dean, I’m glad you’re awake, but stay down, would you? You lost too much blood to be of any use.”

 

The night’s festivities come rushing back so quickly that it’s probably for the best that Seamus had pushed him back down. Wild-eyed, he reaches for Seamus’ elbow, grip so tight the skin of his knuckles goes white under the cracks.

 

“You set Azkaban on _ fire,”  _ Dean says, heart racing. “You— how are we alive?”

 

“Fire started in my cell,” Seamus says, like it was obvious. “I waited for the door to burn, then got you and Mr. Ollivander. Remember, Dean?”

 

Dean does remember. He remembers the heat and the smoke, somehow still a welcome change from the cold ever-twilight of the prison. He also remembers the—

 

“Screams,” he whispers. _ “God,  _ Seamus, all those people—”

 

“They’re better dead than trapped there,” Seamus says, mouth pinched into a grim, unhappy line. “Better dead than their souls sucked out.”

 

Dean shivers, relaxing his grip slowly.

 

“Where are we?”

 

“At my Da’s. It was the only place I could think of where no one’d bother to look.” Seamus shifts. “He sewed you up the Muggle way— he said you’d be hurting once you came ‘round.”

 

“Your dad a doctor?”

 

Seamus shakes his head.

 

“Mortician,” he says. “Works in forensics for Scotland Yard.”

 

Dean sighs.

 

“Lovely.”

 

“There’s breakfast,” Seamus offers. “Well, lunch. It’s about noon, now. Are you hungry?”

 

“... I’d like some water, to be honest.” Dean pauses. “Tea’d be even better.”

 

“Water first,” Seamus says. “If you can manage it, then maybe tea. And toast.”

 

Dean tries a smile, wincing as the movement pulls at cracked lips.

 

“Meal of kings,” he says.

 

Seamus grins.

 

“Something like that.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Ready, Kevin?”

 

Lee looks up just in time to see the boy give him a thumbs up, head ducked under their cobbled together radio equipment, and not a moment later, the microphones glow and they are live.

 

“Good evening, listeners,” Lee begins, slipping easily. “Welcome to today’s Phoenixwatch. I’m your host, best known as River, here to bring you the nice and accurate news in this dystopian wasteland that we call Magical Britain.

 

“Let’s start with the good news, shall we? A Snatcher pack was slaughtered just north of Cheltham. No one knows the identities of the heroes responsible, and if you do, it’s best to keep it to yourself.

 

“The bodies were unable to be identified by our source, mostly due to a severe case of beheading. Our source does, however, suggest that they were killed by Muggle means.

 

“A safehouse was recently set up in Milton Keyes. Look for the mural of the Spice Girls, and remember, if you’re having trouble, look for the bees. The password is yet another finish the line, so please, brush up on your pop music before trying.

 

“For those of you in need of a clean wand, I highly suggest stopping by Woody’s in London sometime over the weekend. We will be having a giveaway, led by the very talented Swan. Food will also be available.

 

“Are any of you cheeky buggers looking into brushing up on your Ancient Runes? Then I highly suggest you make an attempt to be somewhere near Edinburgh come the New Year. Famous poet Robert Burns will be your guide.

 

Lee pauses, shuffling through his papers. He glances at Dennis, who’s seated beside him. The boy arches an eyebrow.

 

Lee looks back at his papers.

 

“And now, a familiar voice. Joining me today is old hat and good friend, Stormcrow.”

 

“Thanks, River.” Dennis shifts closer to the microphone. “Snatchers have been sighted all along the west coast. They appear to be cleaning house— if you consider killing under fives cleaning house. If you happen to be in the area and have a good head for killing fascists, I highly suggest you spend an evening in the lovely area of Devon. Remember, kids: if you see a skull, it’s time to cull. Pest control is a very serious issue for us here at Phoenixwatch.

 

“In other news, Azkaban prison is gone.” Dennis sighs. “No one knows how, but the stronghold erupted into flames late last night. There are no reported survivors as of yet, and to be honest, there likely won’t be. The blaze was… well, by the looks of it, there’s nothing left.

 

“Many of us had friends and family who were falsely imprisoned in the wake of the Dark Lord’s regime. Despite the horrors of Azkaban and the joy many of us take part in with the knowledge that it can no longer be used to torture the innocent, we must recognize the lives lost in the fire.

 

“Among those dead are Minerva McGonagall, Sybill Trelawney, Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody, Justin Finch-Fletchley…”

 

The list goes on. Lee, having already read the bloody list, tunes it out, focusing instead on the slip of parchment Kevin hands him in the process.

 

His eyes go wide, a grin splitting his face, but he keeps quiet until Dennis is done, reaching out to give Dennis’ elbow a squeeze of warning.

 

“May they find peace,” Dennis finishes.

 

“Yeah,” Lee agrees. “I’m sorry to ruin a somber moment, listeners, but breaking news: Manksy has struck again, this time within the Ministry itself. A lewd— if accurate— portrait of the ever lovely and deranged Bellatrix Lestrange has surfaced, permanently attached to the intimidating ‘MIGHT IS MAGIC’ statue in the Ministry atrium. Authorities are baffled as to how it got there, and are trying even now to destroy it before the lucky lady herself can witness it. I highly suggest catching a look for yourselves if you can manage without getting murdered, but Manksy tells me he will be making the work publicly available as soon as able.”

 

“I’ve seen it,” Dennis pipes up. “It really is a work of of art.”

 

“This sort of stuff never makes the Prophet, so I’m happy that you learned of it here,” Lee says. “That’s our show, for now. Join us next time for more— the password will be ‘Moldy Butt’.”

 

Kevin snorts and cuts the feed, leaning back in his chair as he tries to hold in his giggles.

 

“It’s really up?” Dennis asks. “The Lestrange poster, I mean.”

 

“If you’re not laughing, you’re crying,” Lee says, shrugging. “Better we give our people something to laugh about— helps with morale, you know.”

 

Dennis shakes his head.

 

“You’re mad,” he says.

 

Lee shrugs.

 

“All that time with the twins, it was bound to rub off sometime,” he says. “Come on— I’ve a bed calling for me.”


	16. Chapter 16

Mrs. Weasley lives in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, formerly occupied by the Black Family. Somehow, Draco isn’t as surprised as he ought to be.

 

She makes lunch for them all— a hearty beef stew for Draco and the older children, and bottles for the babies. 

 

“I don’t get much company, nowadays,” she tells him when she goes to refill his plate. “Nearly all of my children have left the country, and with the Order destroyed…” she trails off, shrugging. “Honestly, it was a blessing when Daphne contacted me. Something to do, you know. A way to help.”

 

“When are we going to see our parents again?” Curtis pipes up, looking up at her through dark, glossy curls.

 

Molly doesn’t even hesitate.

 

“With any luck, the moment the war is over,” she says, squeezing him gently. “The Magical war, I mean. Has Magic been explained to you?”

 

“Mrs. Luna explained it to us,” Morris pipes up. “She said we’re all wizards.”

 

_ “And  _ witches,” Chanelle adds. “Girls can’t be wizards.”

 

“A girl can be whatever she likes,” Molly says absently, patting her on the shoulder. “And how is Luna, Draco? She used to live near here, you know. Sweet girl, if a little strange.”

 

Draco tries not to twitch at the description.

 

“As well as can be expected,” he says. “We’re expecting our first child in early January.”

 

Molly smiles brightly.

 

“Truly? Well, congratulations, Draco,” she says. “Children always bring new life to a house. Are you still living with your parents at Malfoy Manor?”

 

Not on your life.

 

“No, we have a small property on the coast.” With a boat tied to the docks, just in case.

 

“That’s good,” Mrs. Weasley says. “Having your own space to grow, that’s key to a good marriage.”

 

She’s kind enough to ask after his parents, as well, though Draco’s sure that’s only out of politeness. It’s common knowledge that the Weasleys have no love for the Malfoys.

 

“Where are we going to go?” Roger inquires once the plates have been cleared away to make space for dessert.

 

“My youngest son and his family have several houses in—” Mrs. Weasley pauses, glancing at Draco. “In a safe place,” she finishes. “It’s best for no one to know until they get there.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I work for the bad guys,” Draco informs him. “I’m not allowed to know unless I plan on never coming back, and I can’t leave now— Luna won’t be very happy with me if I did.”

 

“His helping is secret, and it will be very dangerous for him and Mrs. Luna if he’s found out,” Molly adds. “He can’t know anything until he’s absolutely certain he wants to go.”

 

“Are you gonna be okay?” Chanelle asks, frowning at him. “You should call my big brothers. They can help.”

 

Draco forces a smile.

 

“Not with these people,” he says. “They don’t fight fair.”

 

“I think that’s enough for now,” Molly says. “Eat your cake— we’re going to have a nap, and then I’m going to take you to where we’re going. Alright?”

 

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley.” The children go quiet.

 

“You mentioned his family,” Draco says. “Has We— has Ron gotten married?”

 

“No, though I wish he would.” Mrs. Weasley shakes her head. “He’s living with a Muggle girl, now, very sweet, as I understand it, and making music. Not particularly good music, mind, but it pays the bills, you know.”

 

Draco doesn’t know. He can’t fathom the concept of marrying a Muggle.

 

“That’s… good,” he says. What else is there to say?

 

“It is,” she agrees.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Lyra, what are you doing?”

 

“Preparing for war.”

 

Sirius blinks.

 

“Oh, well if that’s all,” he says. “Do you mind if I borrow your car?”

 

Lyra lowers her staff.

 

“Why?”

 

Sirius shrugs. “You heard about the kids coming in, right?”

 

Lyra blinks.

 

“Ah, yes, the refugees,” she says. “Shameful thing, for grown men to chase after children. My men and I will kill them— their blood is rather sweet, after all.”

 

Sirius glances at the spear. The odd, greenish tint to the blade implies dwarvish craftsmanship. Those evil buggers like to poison the steel of their blades.

 

“What do you mean, ‘their blood is sweet?’” He feels the need to ask.

 

Lyra’s smile is razor sharp in its pleasure.

 

“We wanted to test their strength,” she says. “Just to see what we were up against. Would you like to see our trophies? Daddy’s taken the skulls, of course, but I’ve made up some lovely shrunken heads to wear into our next skirmish.”

 

“Er, I’m sure they’re lovely, but no,” he says. “I was never one for shrunken heads, to be honest.”

 

Lyra shrugs.

 

“Have it your way.” She raises her spear again.

 

“Er, Lyra?”

 

“Yes, cousin?”

 

You never answered my question.”

 

“What question?”

 

“Can I borrow your car?”

 

“Can you drive?”

 

“It can’t be that different from a motorcycle, right?”

 

Lyra sighs and turns her gaze back to the other men on the tennis-court-turned-training-ground.

 

“Keep going,” she orders. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

 

She looks back to Sirius.

 

“Come on. You can ride shotgun.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“Did you hear what happened in Devon?”

 

“Yeah. Bernie’s team was wiped out— and the heads were _ missing.” _

 

“Who even _ does  _ that?”

 

“Muggles, probably. You know Bernie— they’d probably gone in for a few pints before work, got caught unawares. It’s not the first time a Muggle’s tried to fight back. Remember Peters, six months back? He came into Mungo’s with a face full of metal— buckshot, I think the healers said it was called.”

 

“There was an unfortunate attack,” Lucas murmurs at Draco’s shoulder, making him jump.

 

“What?”

 

“There was an attack,” Lucas repeats. “Seven of our number, dead. Rumor is they were beheaded.”

 

“Are the rumors true?”

 

Lucas shrugs.

 

“It was Mr. Nott who found them when they failed to report back,” he says. “He’s always had a knack for hyperbole. And a delicate stomach.”

 

Draco nods, ignoring the way his own stomach was tying itself into knots. It would have been hard to get the jump on Bernard Mayweather— drunk he might have been, but the man was a champion duelist, not to mention one of the Dark Lord’s oldest followers at the age of sixty-three. He’d only taken a Snatcher team because his wife insisted he be home for dinner every evening.

 

“Well, there’s no point in dwelling on it,” he says curtly, straightening. “Get the men ready to move out. We have a busy night ahead of us.”

 

Lucas smiles.

 

“Of course, sir.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Mistress, the Dark Lord is being here.”

 

Luna blinks.

 

“Again?” she asks, then shakes her head. “Never mind. I’ll take him in the inner gardens. Please prepare oolong— it’s his favorite.”

 

Closing her book, she carefully rises to her feet. Pregnancy is… uncomfortable, but she can’t find it in herself to complain too much. Not with so little left to go.

 

The Dark Lord made a point of coming to tea twice more since his initial midnight visit, once during normal teatime hours and once during her daily walk through the gardens.

 

Luna shudders at the memory. He’d brought Bellatrix with him that time. She’d been…  _ perfectly pleasant,  _ asking after her health and talking of plans for the annual New Year’s Eve Gala at Malfoy Manor. Somehow, that’d been worse than if she’d acted the madwoman that Luna knows in her heart of hearts that she is.

 

The Dark Lord is already waiting for her when she finally makes it to the gardens.

 

“Mrs. Malfoy, good afternoon,” he greets, rising gracefully from his seat to offer his arm. “Are you quite alright?”

 

That’s another thing. He’s quite the gentleman, at these teas. Draco doesn’t believe her when she tells him so— probably with good reason.

 

“Yes, my Lord, thank you,” she says, smiling into red eyes. “I’m just tired. She’s taking a lot out of me.”

 

A hand reflexively falls onto her stomach.

 

“A girl?” The Dark Lord’s eyes widen slightly in surprise as he leads her to the chair opposite his. “There hasn’t been a girl born to the Malfoy name in at least a hundred years. Are you certain?”

 

“We haven’t done any tests,” she admits as she settles herself into her seat. “But I have a feeling I’m right.”

 

“Narcissa would be ecstatic if you had a girl,” the Dark Lord muses. “I remember she talked of adoption after it became clear she wouldn’t conceive again after Draco. Lucius vetoed the idea, of course— he couldn’t bear the thought of a halfblood carrying the Malfoy name.”

 

Luna keeps her expression.

 

“I can imagine,” she says, waving a hand over the tea set. The pot— beautifully detailed with blue forget-me-nots, a wedding gift from Lady Burke— hops to it, pouring tea for them both. It settles itself, just in time for the creamer and sugar bowls to do their work.

 

“You have a gift for wandless magic, from what I’ve seen,” the Dark Lord remarks, thankfully changing topics. “Is it a hereditary trait?”

 

“My mother had a certain skill for it, yes,” Luna admits. “As did my grandmother. My father can’t do much more than light a candle, however, and that took practice. He has passed on other skills, however.”

 

“Such as?”

 

Luna reaches for her teacup.

 

“We see things that others cannot,” she says. “Nargles, and Blibbering Humdingers, and Gulping Plimpies— most sensible wizards don’t believe in such things.” She sips her tea. “I, however, only believe what my eyes tell me. And they tell me there are things wizards know very little about their own world.”

 

“I find no fault in your thinking,” the Dark Lord says, and she can sense he’s smiling, even if the glamor on his face doesn’t twitch. “I must, however, ask that you elaborate. What else can you see, besides Magical creatures?”

 

“Many things.” Luna offers him a small smile. “I can see the runic magic embroidered into them hems your robes— they’re a bit distracting, really.”

 

He chuckles, so she continues.

 

“I can through most illusionary charms, as well.” His chuckles stop. “They depend on the strength of the caster, but most. I couldn’t see through Dumbledore’s, for instance, though I know it was there.”

 

“Dumbledore wore a glamor?”

 

Luna nods.

 

“It was just over his eyes,” she says. “Whoever looked at him thought he was looking back. Clever, considering the psychological implications.” She pauses. “I think he napped at the High Table far often than anyone realizes.”

 

The Dark Lord snorts, but there’s something different about how he looks at her, something calculating.

 

“Can you see through mine?” he asks.

 

She shakes her head.

 

“No,” she admits. “But I know it’s there. It… distorts everything. Like seeing someone through a veil, or a foggy window.”

 

The Dark Lord sits back.

 

“This… knowledge,” he says finally. “You’ve kept it to yourself.”

 

She bows her head.

 

“Some people need their glamors,” she says. “If you are planning to uphold some kind of public image, I imagine you need yours— though I must say, pretending to be reptilian is certainly not a way to gain public approval, in my opinion.”

 

“And what, pray tell, would you suggest?” The Dark Lord sounds… amused. That’s good. Luna knows it was a gamble to admit her ability.

 

“Well, I suppose it depends on what your final goal is,” she says. “Do you hope to keep your government, or something else?”

 

“My goal is to lead Magical Britain into a new age, with its traditions untainted by Mudblood ideals.”

 

“Than perhaps giving an image of a monster is not the best route to go,” Luna says. “It makes it easier for dissenters to demonize you. Your beliefs are noble, but they will go unheard if their voices are heard.”

 

“I plan to take their voices from them,” the Dark Lord says, shoulders rolling in a graceful shrug. “So it hardly matters.”

 

“Eventually, even your believers will tire of death,” she says plainly. “People will grow tired of war and killing. They will want peace and security for their families, and they will turn on you.”

 

“And how do you propose I stop such things?” he inquires. “Reality is not so clean that there is ever true peace, no matter the Light’s claims.”

 

“A handsome face and a logical mind do wonders,” she says. “A good orator who can charm the public without ever needing to draw his wand. A flourishing economy. Proof that society is bettering itself.”

 

She’s fighting down the urge to vomit, and for once it has nothing to do with her morning sickness.

 

“As for the deaths of the Mudbloods—” Merlin, her mouth feels dirty. “— There will always be more. Kill the ones who fight now, of course, but perhaps… perhaps subtlety is the way to go— at least until you are secure in your victory over the hearts and minds of the people.”

 

The Dark Lord is silent for a long moment after that, long enough for Luna to start to worry. Perhaps she’s said too much. Perhaps she’s just gotten herself and Draco killed. Perhaps—

 

“You are a very bold girl,” he says. “Few would dare be so forward with me. I find it… refreshing.” He sets down his teacup. “Would you like to see what lies behind my glamor?”

 

Luna blinks.

 

“I… I’ll admit to some curiosity,” she says, dipping her head. “But you needn’t show me anything, my Lord. I’ve said too much. It’s not my place.”

 

“I have a feeling you’ve never cared for what your place is before,” the Dark Lord remarks, smiling slightly. “But you have been honest with me, Mrs. Malfoy, in the face of all that I am. Such honesty, in my eyes, is a very rare kind of _ loyalty.” _

 

Luna swallows.

 

“I only wish my Lord’s comfort,” she murmurs. “Your glamor is yours. You needn’t bother—”

 

“Be silent.”

 

Luna’s mouth snaps shut.

 

The glamor ripples like water, becoming oddly flat before falling away completely. She blinks.

 

“My Lord, I…”

 

“Not what you expected, is it?” The Dark Lord runs a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “I am an old man, Mrs. Malfoy.”

 

“You can’t be older than sixty,” Luna blurts out, because apparently she’s taken a Blabbering Potion with her tea.

 

He smiles, and it’s a handsome smile, one that fills his dark eyes with good humor.

 

“I’ll be seventy-four on the thirty-first,” he says. “But it’s very kind of you to say.”

 

She can’t help but stare. He looks— he looks like the sort of man who could destroy countless lives. He also looks like the sort of man who doesn’t have to work for a bedmate.

 

“You should be the face of your own campaign,” she says. “Politically, I mean.”

 

“Are you calling me handsome?”

 

It’s strange, how easily she can draw amusement from the Dark Lord, murderer of Albus Dumbledore and countless others.

 

“If the shoe fits, my Lord.”

 

The Dark Lord leans back.

 

“I will take your thoughts on the matter of my future plans account,” he says. “You have brought up many good points, and now is the time for planning for such eventualities. But before I do that, I must ask— why on earth would a well-bred girl like yourself have any thoughts on the matter? Correct me if I’m wrong— and I’m sure you would— but Pureblood girls don’t study politics.”

 

Luna freezes. She can’t think of a lie, now that she can see the shrewd eyes that have pinned her into her seat.

 

“My… father,” she says at last. “He was indulgent. When I was younger I became fascinated with… with the Muggle World Wars that raged alongside our own battle against Grindelwald.”

 

She bows her head, hiding her face from view. If she’s right, the Dark Lord will read it as embarrassment rather than fear. She has a reputation with him, after all, a reputation that seems to be the only thing that’s protecting her.

 

“You’re father is an odd man,” he says. “And you are an odd woman. I imagine that it is to your credit that you have such a hunger for knowledge, even if that hunger does lead you to study inappropriate materials.

 

“I was alive for the Second World War,” he says. “I remember the bombings on the Muggle side of things. There were so many pamphlets the streets were white with them.”

 

“Hitler lost for many reasons,” Luna says. “But he was loved by his people until madness took hold. We aren’t fighting other countries, or even other armies. We have advantages he never could have imagined.”

 

“If there were ever a Muggle I’d like to meet, it would be him,” the Dark Lord admits. “So many Muggles dead, and Grindelwald didn’t have to lift a finger. Muggles really are mad, aren’t they?”

 

“They kill their own people for the most superficial of reasons,” Luna agrees faintly.

 

“Perhaps I ought to refresh my memory on the subject,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s been a long time, after all, and history is meant to be learned from.”

 

“I’ve always thought so,” she says, forcing a small smile. Narcissa’s lessons have done wonders, they truly have. A year ago Luna wouldn’t have been able to keep up the pretense of a well-mannered purist.

 

“Well, Mrs. Malfoy, you’ve given me much to think about,” the Dark lord says at last, rising to his feet. She struggles to follow, but he waves her away, bending down to press a bristly kiss to her cheek.

 

“If I’d had you twenty years ago, I might not have been so reckless,” he says. “You truly are a wonder.”

 

“Twenty years ago you wouldn’t have known what to do with me, my Lord,” Luna says, inwardly marvelling at her own ability to stop from flinching. “I wasn’t even a twinkle in my father’s eye.”

 

He laughs, straightening.

 

“Take care of yourself, Mrs. Malfoy,” he says. “Until next time.”

 

He leaves her there, alone, with two cooling cups of half-drunk tea and a sinking feeling in her stomach.

  
“The Dark Lord likes me,” she whispers.  _ “Fuck.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: If you're curious as to what my image of the Dark Lord is, please google Pierce Brosnan in The Son. He looks properly evil.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC stuff that will matter later, I promise. Please enjoy the Squib line of the Nott family.

**_May 25th, 1998_ **

 

They’ve got nothing. No identifiable fingerprints, not cause of death, no witnesses— nothing but a dead body and a wand made of walnut. Sorry, not a wand, a _ stick, _ because that’s what it fucking is.

 

Bishop hates it.

 

Penelope Clearwater’s parents live in France— have lived in New Zealand for the past two years. Penelope herself, for all intents and purposes, disappeared off the face of the planet when she was eleven years old, apparently— according to former neighbors— attending an elite boarding school in Scotland.

 

No school has her name on record, which means, of course, that it’s one big, fat, lie.

 

Bishop’s not surprised, exactly— everyone is always lying about something— but why lie about this? Why lie about school?

 

“Maybe she was special needs,” Eddie says from around a mouth full of egg sandwich. “And her parents were embarrassed.”

 

Bishop shakes his head.

 

“She was in the gifted program before she transferred to… wherever,” he says. “Stellar grades, no social problems of note.”

 

“Was she bullied?”

 

“Doesn’t look like it.”

 

“Any siblings?”

 

Bishop shakes his head.

 

Nott sighs.

 

“Well, this doesn’t make any sense,” he says plainly. “Why does a normal girl with good grades disappear off the face of the earth only to end up in a crack house?”

 

“Bad boyfriend, bad home life— they might have sent her away because of family trouble.” Bishop bites his lip. “What have we got on the wand?”

 

Nott sighs.

 

“Walnut wood, with some carvings that have been identified as Nordic Runes,” he says. “Dr. Finnegan’s working on whether or not they’ve some sort of meaning. Occult activity’s starting to look like a real possibility, though.”

 

Bishop’s been thinking much the same.

 

“If it is, are we looking at a practitioner or just a victim?” he asks. “Are we going to see more of this sort of thing?”

 

Nott shrugs just as his phone goes off.

 

“Fuck— do you mind if I take this?”

 

“I don’t give a fuck.”

 

“Thanks.” Nott flips open the phone and puts it to his ear.

 

“Detective Nott speaking… yes… oh, God, really? No, no, I understand, of course… I’m at work right now, can’t he just stay in the office? Oh, for Christ’s— yes. Yes, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He snaps the phone shut with a thumb and glances at Bishop.

 

“Can I ask you a favor?”

 

Bishop sighs.

 

“What is it?”

 

“I need a ride to my son’s school.”

 

“You— wait, you’ve got kids?”

 

“Yeah, three of ‘em.” Eddie rubs his face tiredly. “Lionel’s been a bit unhappy since I got promoted. He’s been acting out.”

 

“What did he do?” Bishop asks.

 

“He dyed one of his classmate’s hair pink during nap,” he says. “And Lionel’s throwing a fit for getting in trouble so they won’t let him stay ‘til the end of the day. Do you mind?”

 

“... Fine, alright.”

 

Eddie brightens.

 

“Thanks,” he says, already pushing himself to his feet. “It’ll be quick, I promise… I’ll just drop him off at his Grandad’s and we can head back here.”

 

Bishop sighs and grabs his coat. He’s never liked kids, and now he’s going to have one in the back of his car, putting it’s sticky paws all over everything.

 

This day isn’t turning out well at all.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Lionel Nott is silent in the backseat of Bishop’s car, head bowed, arms crossed, and red cheeks tearstained.

 

Bishop has never had such a quiet suspect in his custody. It’s actually a rather pleasant change.

 

He’d denied any wrongdoing, of course, when Eddie had asked him what happened. He’d just been sitting there, he said. It’s not his fault that Noah’s hair turned pink, even if the other boy had been making fun of his pink butterfly watch earlier that morning. He hadn’t done anything wrong, Daddy, honest.

 

There is something rather charming about a five-year-old’s indignance.

 

Nott the elder seems rather irritated, all told. Lionel’s misbehavior has become a fact of life, it seems, since starting primary school, and Eddie has yet to adjust.

 

Bishop can’t relate. Like he said before, he doesn’t like children.

 

“This is it,” Eddie says, pointing at a small stone house at the end of the road. “You can just park, if you like.”

 

Bishop does, turning off the car and tucking his keys into his pocket.

 

Eddie turns to peer at his son over the backseat.

 

“You’re gonna be good for Granddad now, you hear me?” Eddie says. “Granddad’s too old to be dealing with any nonsense, no matter how funny you think it is.”

 

Lionel’s tucks his crossed arms tighter into his chest.

 

“I didn’t do it, Dad,” he mutters, not meeting his father’s eyes. Bishop can’t help but appreciate his dedication.

 

Eddie sighs, running a hand through his hair.

 

“Do you promise you’ll be good for Granddad?”

 

Lionel’s lower lip pushes out.

 

“Yeah,” he says. “I like Granddad. Granddad’s better than you.”

 

Eddie sighs.

 

“Right, get out,” he says.

 

“You’re kid’s a fantastic liar,” Bishop informs Nott as the door slams shut behind the little boy. “How did he dye the other kid’s hair pink again?”

 

“No idea,” Eddie says, pushing open the passenger door. “The teachers have no clue what he could have used without a basic knowledge of chemistry and the stealth of a fucking _ ninja.  _ There was an aid in the room the entire time, and she didn’t notice a thing.”

 

Bishop snorts.

 

“Sounds like he’d make a good forensic analyst,” he says. “Finnegan’s got the quiet creep, too— excellent for frightening annoying probies in the morgue.”

 

“Is _ that  _ why you took me down to look over the Clearwater girl?”

 

It was. Unfortunately, Nott didn’t seem particularly bothered.

 

“‘Course not— oh, is that your Dad?”

 

“No, actually. Granddad Thaddeus is my great-great-grandfather.” Eddie grins at Bishop’s surprised expression. “Come on, I’ll introduce you— he’s a bit mad, but a good laugh.”

 

Bishop doesn’t like the sound of that, but it’s not like he has anything better to do, either, so he gets out of the car.

 

The door opens before they can get close enough to knock, and a man with flyaway white hair and a wide, toothy smile comes out to greet them.

 

“Eddie, Lionel, what a surprise!”

 

He can’t be older than sixty, this man, no matter what Nott says. It’s just not possible.

 

Lionel runs into his arms, and Thaddeus lifts him up without trouble, accepting the clumsy kiss happily before setting the boy back down.

 

“Hey, Granddad,” Eddie says. “How are you?”

 

“One foot in the grave, as always— but what else is new?” Thaddeus looks over at Bishop. “You’re his new partner, then?”

 

Bishop nods, holding out a hand.

 

“Rosier Bishop, sir,” he says. “It’s good to meet you.”

 

“That’s nice of you to say, Mr. Bishop,” Thaddeus says, giving his hand a vigorous shake. “Though I assume our meeting was not part of the plan for today.”

 

Eddie hums sheepishly.

 

“Yeah… Granddad, would you mind watching Lionel for a few hours?” he asks. “He was sent home early again.”

 

Thaddeus sighs, mouth pinching unhappily as he looks at his great-great-great-grandson.

 

“What did he do this time?”

 

“Turned another boy’s hair pink. No one knows how.”

 

Bishop expects a scolding, or perhaps something in defense of the child. That’s what grandparents do, after all. Instead, however, Thaddeus seems to brighten.

 

“Really?” He asks, glancing at Lionel. “That sounds like magic, to me.”

 

“It certainly sounds that way,” Eddie agrees, glancing at Bishop. “But regardless— no treats for him this time, Granddad. We can’t be encouraging this behavior.”

 

Thaddeus scoffs.

 

“Fine! Stamp on the boy’s magical ability, that’s alright,” he says. “He’ll be fine, of course— no chance of becoming an Obscurial that way.”

 

Eddie sighs.

 

“Right. Thanks Granddad. I’ll be by to pick him up in a few hours.”

 

Thaddeus nods, holding out a hand for Lionel to take.

 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bishop,” he says. “Hopefully you’ll be by sometime again soon— and for a more pleasant reason.”

 

Not on your life.

 

“Of course, Mr. Nott,” Bishop says.

 

Thaddeus nods and turns to Eddie.

 

“I’ll see you around five, then?”

 

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

 

“Good. I’ll make dinner.”

 

He glances at Lionel.

 

“Fish and chips, then?” he asks quietly, and judging by Lionel’s sudden smile and Eddie’s small groan, that’s the exact opposite of ‘no treats’.

 

“Let’s go,” Eddie mutters. “Before I get annoyed.”

 

Bishop’s more than happy to escape to the car, even if it does mean having to talk about _ family. _

 

“Granddad used to tell us all stories about magic,” Eddie says. “And I completely believed him ‘til about three. He’s completely certain Lionel’s a— _ a wizard,  _ of all things.”

 

Bishop snorts.

 

“That’s pretty cool, when you’re five,” he says.

 

“Yeah, it is. Except Lionel believes it, too. You should have heard him in the principal’s office— he said if he did anything, it was an accident, because he’s _ magical  _ and doesn’t know how to control it.” Eddie sighs. “I’ve tried to ease him out of it, but nothing’s working. His therapist says it’s a coping mechanism, to deal with his Mum walking out on him.”

 

Ah. Bishop had wondered about that.

 

“Better than some things,” he says. “Guess Mr. Nott’s a good story-teller.”

 

Eddie laughs humorlessly.

 

“The best,” he says. “He used to tell us about how— about how the reason he ended up at the orphanage was because his family was magic, and he wasn’t. Used to tell us about Hogwarts, a school for wizards, and how when he didn’t get his letter— which was delivered by an _ owl,  _ by the way— his parents left him on a London street corner and never looked back. He was eleven.”

 

“Eleven? That’s a bit old to be leaving babies on doorsteps.”

 

“It wasn’t so uncommon, then,” Eddie says. “People couldn’t feed their families, and if he’s telling the truth, he was the second youngest of nine. If anything, _ his  _ stories are a coping mechanism, and Lionel’s just too little to understand they’re all fairy stories.”

 

Bishop shrugs.

 

“If he’s as old as you say he is, he looks fantastic,” Bishop says. “But looking good isn’t enough, when you’re old. I remember when my granny starting losing it— she used to think I was my uncle, half the time.”

 

Nott sighs.

 

“Yeah, I suppose,” he says. “I just wish I could get him to understand that he’s hurting more than helping. He’s gotten especially fixated on Lionel recently, too. The girls never got this much attention when they were his age.”

 

Bishop doesn’t know what to say to that, and isn’t really inclined to answer, so he keeps quiet, and drives them back to the station.

  
After all, they _ do  _ have work to do.


	19. Chapter 19

“So, how goes your… writing project?”

 

Marlowe smiles at his sister.

 

“Pretty good,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “We’ve been getting owl post the last two weeks, so it’s starting to catch on with non-Muggle viewers.”

 

“You ought to be careful,” Timpani can’t help but say. “If MACUSA catches wind…”

 

“Don’t worry, Timpy,” Marlowe says, flapping a hand. “Olympia’s been running interference for us, right, Miss O?”

 

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful,” Olympia says without looking up from her meal. “I can only do so much before it’s a scandal, you know. I’ve already been preparing for the eventualities of arrest and trial— you know, building a case for your early release.”

 

“Not funny, Aunt Olympia,” Hagan says, reaching for his wineglass.

 

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Olympia says. “You two are breaking the International Statute of Secrecy— what, do you think that only gets you a slap on the wrist?”

 

“Yeah, Hagan, it’s not like we’re out playing No-Maj Hunting,” Marlowe says, sneering. “That’s hardly trouble at all— just a fine for three hundred dragots.”

 

“Marlowe, that’s not fair,” Timpani says, frowning. “You know there’s a new bill going through congress to repeal the invisibility clause. And anyway—” she stops, looking down at her plate.

 

Marlowe’s lip curls.

 

“‘And anyway’... what, Timpani?” he asks, words taking on a mocking edge. “What were you going to say?”

 

Timpani swallows.

 

“Marlowe, leave her alone,” Hagan warns, but Marlowe waves him off, leaning closer.

 

“What were you going to say, little sister?” he demands. “Were you going to try to scare me off? Maybe quote Mom on the inferiority of No-Majes?”

 

Timpani shakes her head, biting her lip as tears begin their familiar burn behind her eyes. She’s always cried so easily— this isn’t even close to how mean Marlowe can be.

 

“Then what were you going to say? I’m honestly curious.”

 

Timpani swallows.

 

“You’re not the worst ones around,” she forces out. “Breaking the Statute, I mean. One of my students— she lives with No-Majes.”

 

Marlowe rears back, eyes wide with surprise. _ “What?” _

 

Timpani nods.

 

“Jane and her brothers,” she says. “They live in Berkeley— moved here from England about... five years ago? They were part of the punk scene, from what I remember— Ron still is, actually. He’s a producer for a lot of the bands.”

 

“Really?” Hagan asks. “And they haven’t gotten any shit?”

 

“The No-Majes don’t know, surely.”

 

Timpani shakes her head.

 

“They all know,” she says. “Apparently one of them’s a Squib, or something, but… yeah. Everybody knows. And their whole family lives with them now, too. Henry’s godfather is apparently a distant cousin to the Blacks. He’s Lord of the English branch, from what I understand—”

 

“Are you talking about Sirius Black?” Hagan says suddenly, dark eyes intent on Timpani.

 

She shrinks at the attention.

 

“Ah— yes?” she says meekly. “I mean, that’s what Henry calls him—”

 

“Harry,” Hagan corrects. “His name’s Harry. Harry Potter.”

 

“I— well, they’re the Potter family, yeah,” Timpani agrees. “Well, Ron’s family’s called the Weasleys, I think—”

 

“Yeah, that’s Harry.” Hagan catches his aunt’s questioning look. “An old friend from school— that cheeky fuck, everyone was certain he’d gone and found himself a nice beach in Australia…” Hagan breaks off into a chuckle, shaking his head. “God, and he hasn’t gotten into shit with local law?”

 

“Not that I know of,” Timpani says. “Why?”

 

“No reason. Would you mind giving me his address?” Hagan asks. “I’d like to talk to him, if at all possible. He missed a lot, leaving school so early.”

 

“I— yeah, hold on.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a notepad and pencil, scribbling the address across the top before handing it to Hagan. “Here. But maybe don’t tell him you got it from me if he seems unhappy, alright? He’s kinda scary.”

 

“Of course,” Hagan says, nodding. “Thanks very much, Timpy. You’re an angel.”

 

The conversation turns in the direction of politics soon after, leaving Timpy in the dust. She doesn’t pay much attention to the news, much less international nonsense.

 

She really hopes Henry isn’t angry at her for giving Hagan his address. Maybe she shouldn’t have.

 

Oh, well.

  
  


*.*

  
  


The Castro isn’t what it used to be, not if the spirits are anything to go by. Ginny never thought she’d see a ghost in sequins leopard, but then, most of the ghosts she’d met before moving to Berkeley were wizards when they were alive.

 

These ghosts aren’t wizards. They’re men, mostly— young and old, but mostly young, dressed up like they’re all going to a party they’re never going to go to. Their faces are skeletal, their eyes sunken into their skulls and their pale skin shaded dark with bruises. They make Ginny sick to look at, and yet she can never look away.

 

Normally she avoids the Castro, no matter how much Astoria complains. She’s not like Astoria, she can’t ignore them so easily. Not when they cling to the walls of the clubs and line the main street. Not when they’re floating through the alleys, looking for something the world can’t give them anymore.

 

No one’s helping them. No one’s _ qualified  _ to help them. So why is it that Ginny’s here, clutching her purse to her chest like it’s the only thing keeping her from turning tail and going home?

 

Right, she’s a Gryffindor. Brave by default, hero complex mandatory.

 

She’s not sure where to start, really. There’s just so _ many  _ of them.

 

“You lost, sweetie?”

 

Ginny jerks, head snapping to one side so she can look at whoever had spoken.

 

A tall man with a wide mouth meant for smiling and curly hair stares down at her, neon sign shining through his bare upper chest.

 

“Ah, no, I’m not lost.”

 

“Wait, you heard that?” he sounds surprised. “Can you see me?”

 

Ginny nods.

 

The man’s mouth pulls into a toothy grin.

 

“Holy shit, you can see me!” he says. “You can see me, you can— hey, can you see those guys, over there?” he points to a cluster of spirits across the streets, necks craned as they stare at the ghost standing with Ginny.

 

“Yeah, I can,” she says. “I can see all of you.”

 

“That’s awesome,” the man says. “You, God, that’s awesome. What’s your name, sweetie?”

 

“Ginny. Ginny Weasley.”

 

“Ginny? That’s so cute. It really fits you.” The man plucks a his tank top. “I’m Louie. So, what are you doing around here?”

 

“Uh…” How should she word this? Honestly, probably. “I came to talk to you, actually. All of you. Why are there so many of you?”

 

Louie sombers.

 

“Don’t you know your history, kid?” He asks. “The AIDs epidemic. It killed a lot of people.”

 

“A disease?”

 

“A virus, but yeah.” Louie runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know too much about the ins and outs of it, honestly— I’m not much of a technical guy. But there’s a doctor around here somewhere if you want to talk to him. He kept track of it even after he died.”

 

“I— yeah, please.”

 

Louie reaches out to grab her hand and passes through it.

 

“Oh,” he says, looking disappointed. “I guess you can’t touch us.”

 

“No… sorry.”

 

Louie flaps a hand at her.

 

“It’s fine,” he says, flapping a hand at her. “I just figured— it doesn’t matter. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Mark. He was beautiful, back in the day.”

 

Uncertain of what else to do, Ginny follows him. Muggle doctors, she finds, are far more specific when they talk about medical conditions— likely a side-effect of having to heal their patients manually.

 

She thinks she ought to have brought a pen.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, huh? Life has been very distracting, but I got here, right? Right?

**_January 2nd, 2000_ **

  
  


Luna could sleep for a week, except she can’t, because there’s currently a small, squishy thing latched onto her nipple that’s likely to start shrieking as soon as it’s finished it’s first breakfast.

 

“The Dark Lord is here, mistress.” Iggy used the door this time, unwilling to disturb the calm of the birthing room with the crack of apparition. “He and his followers is being greeted by Master Draco and Lady Narcissa. The Dark Lord is wishing to speak with you, mistress.”

 

Luna looks at her daughter, swallows down the fear, and looks to Iggy.

 

“If he doesn’t mind my current state, he can come and speak with me right now,” she says. “I don’t think I’ll be moving anytime soon.”

 

Iggy nods, bat ears flapping, and disappears back out into the hall before disapparating. Ten minutes later, there’s a gentle knock on the door.

 

“Come in.”

 

The Dark Lord’s glamour falls from his face the moment the door clicks shut behind him, locked with a magic that Luna didn’t see him cast. He pauses at the foot of her bed, taking in her partially dressed state, eyes lingering on the baby in her arms before finding her face.

 

“Draco said you had a daughter,” he says. “Congratulations.”

 

Luna smiles.

 

“I was hoping for a boy,” she lies. “It would make it simpler for Draco and I, if we had a boy. I could take the Mark alongside him.” She pauses, bowing her head. “I apologize. Draco told me you’d spoken to him of taking the Mark. It’s presumptive to assume I too would be offered a place.”

 

“Not presumptive at all,” the Dark Lord says. “I believe you would be a wonderful addition to our ranks— in fact, I meant to make the offer yesterday, but you were…” his eyes sparkle with an odd, manic humor. “... indisposed.”

 

“Labor is quite distracting,” Luna agrees dryly. “I would have accepted in a moment my Lord, if I’d had a boy. But a girl is no heir to the Malfoy House, and I don’t wish to take on responsibilities I might not be able to maintain should I become pregnant again.”

 

“You are a shrewd girl, Mrs. Malfoy,” the Dark Lord says approvingly. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness on the subject.” He glances down at her daughter again. “Draco didn’t mention if you’d named her, yet.”

 

“We thought we’d stay with his mother’s family’s tradition,” Luna says, running a gentle finger over her daughter’s cheek. “I rather like Vindemiatrix.”

 

The Dark Lord smiles, pleased.

 

“Narcissa will like that,” she says. “She is quite attached to the Black traditions, you know.”

 

“Yes, she’s mentioned.” Luna glances down at her daughter. “My family has no particular tradition, save for that a name can only be used once in the family. It simplifies the memorization of the family tree, I believe.”

 

“A practical reason.” The Dark Lord moves closer, taking a seat in the armchair by her bed. “Despite your current wish to remain Unmarked, I would like to ask a favor of you, regardless.”

 

Luna lowers her eyes.

 

“I am at your command, my Lord,” she says.

 

The Dark Lord chuckles.

 

“I have a feeling that you are under no one’s command but your own,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “And that you’re quite lucky that you’re charming, considering the place waiting for you in my order. I rarely hold with such free thinkers as you.”

 

Luna offers him a small smile, ignoring the flutter of worry in her belly.

 

“I took your advice to heart,” the Dark Lord says. “I read the histories of conquerors, both successful and not. It is strange to realize how much I’d forgotten— the Second World War was fought in my youth, you know, as was Grindelwald’s war.

 

“I have decided that internment camps may be in our best interests,” he continues, leaning back in his chair. “It will optimize efficiency in the cleansing of Great Britain, both of Mudbloods and the Muggles they are born to.”

 

Luna goes cold.

 

“I don’t disagree,” she says carefully. “But, if I may ask, what does this have to do with me?”

 

“Well, in most cases I would task Severus or Lucius to begin making plans,” he admits. “But while Severus is an excellent researcher with little disgust for Muggle literature— provided it serves a purpose— and Lucius is excellent in all things that require budgeting, they both already have their fair share of responsibilities as peacekeepers in Hogwarts and the Wizengamot, respectively. You, however, are a lady.” The Dark Lord smiles. “As a married woman, you have an understanding of money born of of practical experience. You keep your husband’s house and lands, and will eventually care for the entirety of the Malfoy estate. That, coupled with your own interest in Muggle histories has given you a skillset that is useful to me, one that I intend to take every advantage of. 

 

“So, Mrs. Malfoy, I ask you this: will you build my camps for me? You will be given the gold and land necessary, and a position as overseer. Is that acceptable to you?”

 

She can’t say no, that much is clear by the odd glint in his eyes when he looks at her.

 

“Mr Lord,” she murmurs, bowing her head. “I would be honored.”

 

He smiles.

 

“Excellent,” he says. “I have a feeling you’ll show us the meaning of efficiency— Ravenclaws have always been the ideal planners for these sorts of operations. Would two months be enough for you to draw up a preliminary draft, or do you think you’ll need a little longer?”

 

“Two months is more than enough time, I’m sure,” Luna says. “In fact—”

 

Her daughter hiccups in her arms, then begins to cry in earnest.

 

“It appears I’ve kept your attention too long,” the Dark Lord says. “I’ll take my leave and let you both rest.”

 

“Thank you, my Lord,” Luna says. “For the opportunity to prove myself to you.”

 

“I’m sure you will do wonderfully, Mrs. Malfoy,” he says. “Have a good afternoon, and congratulations on the birth of your daughter.”

 

His glamor slides back over his skin as he rises to his feet and moves to the door, leaving him pale and snake-like once more by the time he steps out into the hall. Luna waits until the door shuts behind him, then curls over her daughter with a mostly-silent sob.

 

This isn’t what she wanted.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's been awhile! So I wrote some stuff. Cool, right?

**_February 4th, 2000_ **

  
  


It seems that the acceptance of those first few children was the act that broke the dam between Henry’s world and the world he left behind. The last few months have been nothing but an exercise in futility, efforts to place each child somewhere suitably equipped to handle their needs falling behind as candidates dwindle.

 

As of right now, Henry has seven—  _ seven— _ children living in his house, besides Aubrey and baby Thora, who are directly the Black-Lupin family’s responsibility. His home has become a madhouse, and he has nowhere to go save for the office in the back of his bar.

 

Which is where Fleur finds him, not twenty minutes after he’s finally settled into the muted quiet of his workspace.

 

“Bill is at home with the children,” Fleur says before he can ask, taking a seat in the chair across from him. “I thought you might be hiding here.”

 

“It’s Ron’s turn to do the kid-wrangling,” Henry says flatly. “I’m not cut out for parenting.”

 

“Not everyone is,” Fleur says. “And even if they are, not everyone can handle so many at once.”

 

Henry knows. There are some seventeen children currently displaced, bouncing between Berkeley residences until a more permanent solution can be found.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Henry admits. “Even the Blacks can’t take them all on— Lyra’s already place nearly forty of them.”

 

“I know— that’s why I wanted to talk to you.” Fleur reaches into her bag, pulling out a thick, green binder and holding it out for him to take. “I’ve been doing some research, and I think I might have a solution to our problem.”

 

Henry frowns and flips open the binder.

 

“This is… Paradise Valley,” he says, looking up. “The Black entrance to the west.”

 

Fleur nods.

 

“The town is completely empty,” she says. “And the first place the children see on the other side. I think it could work as…” she trails off.

 

“As what?” Henry prompts.

 

“Well, as a home,” she says. “I believe that we could transform Paradise Valley into a viable community, one where we could properly take care of the children.”

 

“How?”

 

“Build a school,” she says simply. “A proper boarding school, like Beauxbatons or Hogwarts, equipped to handle all children regardless of age. That way, we could ensure a safe and stable environment, rather than passing them from person to person.”

 

“That sounds fantastic,” Henry says. “Except for the fact that we don’t have any way of staffing a Magical school— or really building one, come to think of it.”

 

“The building can be left to me,” Fleur says. “I’ve a Mastery in Magical Architecture. As for staffing, well… Bill and I could be counted as teachers.”

 

“... You’ve talked to Bill about it?”

 

“Well, no,” Fleur admits. “But even with children, Bill is a working man, and he’s bored out of his mind, sitting at home all day. He’d be more than happy to take on classes like Runes and Arithmancy, or even basic Maths, for the younger ones— and that’s the other thing. If I were to do this, I would like to include Muggle classes. Reading, and Mathematics, and Science. I think it would really help settle the younger ones as they come into our side of things, that sense of normality, don’t you?”

 

“Then we’d need Muggle teachers, as well,” Henry points out. “We don’t know any Muggle teachers.”

 

“I know Jane has kept in contact with most of her teachers from high school,” Fleur says. “Maybe they’d like a change of pace. And we know George is good for Potions. I could teach Charms.” She pauses. “Paradise Valley is already warded to the nines, and I’m sure Bill wouldn’t mind upping security even more.”

 

“And I bet Remus’d like to take up Defense again,” Henry muses. “Alright. If you can bring me a staff, some semblance of a plan for all this… I’ll ask Lyra if her father would be willing to let us use the property.”

 

Fleur smiles.

 

“He’s already agreed,” she says. “And construction’s already begun. Asking you was… a formality.”

 

“Of course it is.” Henry sighs. “You knew I’d say yes?”

 

“I knew you weren’t happy, having all these children with no proper place to call home,” she says. “Besides, you always say yes to hare-brained schemes.”

 

That he does.

 

“How long have you been thinking about this?” he asks.

 

“Since the second group came,” she says. “And we had no place to put Steven.”

 

Steven’s been in Henry’s house the longest, quiet and withdrawn to the point of possible mutism.

 

“Is that perhaps how long it’s been since you started building this… school?”

 

“No, of course not— I had to draw up the blueprints, first.” Fleur leans over to brush a kiss to his cheek. “No matter how cranky you come off, Cardy, your gooey center is no secret to the rest of us.”

 

She floats out the door, obviously pleased with herself.

 

“Good to know my opinions matter in these things,” he mutters, setting down the binder.

 

Well, at least Fleur’s being helpful.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Luna looks over her plans for the last time, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. The Dark Lord is coming for dinner, at her request. Draco will be out, having gone to work early.

 

This is it, she thinks. This is where it all leads.

 

She’s waiting for him in her personal parlor, when he finally comes. Vindemiatrix is asleep in the cradle beside her, mouth slightly open as she snores delicately. He wears no glamour today, only his own, handsome face.

 

“My Lord,” she greets, smiling nervously as she rises to her feet.

 

“Luna,” he greets warmly, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He’s become quite intimate with her, recently— while he’d refused the offer to be godfather to her Vindemiatrix, he’d clearly been quite flattered. “How are you?”

 

“Quite well, thank you,” she says. “And you, My Lord?”

 

“Tired, but satisfied,” he says. “And how is your daughter.”

 

“A wonderfully sleepy baby,” Luna admits. “People had warned me on many occasions I wouldn’t have the time to rest, but Vindemiatrix has proven quite calm.”

 

“You’re a lucky one,” he says. “Have you heard? Darling Bella has conceived, at last.”

 

“I did,” Luna says, gesturing for him to take his preferred seat by the window. “She was positively glowing when she told me the news— she’ll be an excellent mother.”

 

That’s a lie, of course. Luna cringes at the thought of the horrors that child will have to live through.

 

“It is good to see such a loyal family grow,” the Dark Lord agrees. “Now come, tell me why you’ve called on me.”

 

“Can’t I simply ask for the pleasure of your company?” Luna inquires, taking her own seat as the tea service gets to work between them.

 

“As much as I’d like to be flattered, you are a practical-minded woman,” he says. “With a preference for multitasking.”

 

She chuckles.

 

“You’ve caught me, my Lord,” she says. “I want to talk to you about my plans for the camps.”

 

“Oh? That does explain your nervousness, then.” The Dark Lord takes his teacup, intrigued. “Have you decided on a location?”

 

“I’ve decided on many things,” she says. “Before I explain, however, I must ask you to save your questions to the end. I’ve come at the problem rather sideways, so bear with me, if you can.”

 

“I will do my absolute best,” he promises with a smile.

 

She nods.

 

“The Widow’s Cliffs, I decided, would be an ideal location,” she says, bringing out a map to spread across the table between them. “As you know, Heir Zabini has become Vindemiatrix’s godfather, and as hoped, has become willing to aid the cause despite his preference for Italian shores. He has given us permission to use his family’s English estate for our purposes.

 

“The structures themselves will be quite simple, each camp containing thirty facilities to house its occupants, not including the homes belonging to the guards. Males will be kept in the camp to the north, women to the south. In order to make use of the manpower we will be housing prior to their termination, we have also set up a facility for the production of our usual newsletters. I believe this may help free up potential soldiers to our cause— Draco’s often complained there’s never enough of them to quell the infestation, especially considering the recent deaths among the Snatcher Units. All necessities will be attached to the workhouse, so as to ensure compliance.” This includes restrooms, cafeterias, and showers, though Luna keeps that to herself. God, she wants to vomit.

 

“The _ piece de resistance _ of each camp, of course, will be the slaughterhouse,” she says, “The Cliffs have what was once a smuggling port attached to their estate. As another effort to ensure compliance, I believe it would do us well to allow the fantasy of a way out. A ferry is being built as we speak, courtesy of the Zabini coffers, that will be warded against Fiendfyre. Every month, three hundred of those within the camps will be chosen to board the ferry. We will tell them that there are simply too many of them to be killed, and for the good of Magic they will be sent off to America, where filth is as well-loved as any proper, Pureblood child. In reality, the moment they’ve gone beyond the horizon, the ferry will burst into flames, and Fiendfyre will wipe their blood from the earth. A handful of timed cleaning spells will handle the superficial damage, and the ferry will return in time to collect the next batch of inmates.”

 

“That seems… elaborate,” the Dark Lord says at last. “And you believe this is necessary?”

 

“A chance at freedom after what I will have them put through will be more than enough to have a docile population,” she says. “And a controlled use of Fiendfyre is efficient in the disposal. I dislike the idea of digging graves for Muggles, and I’ve no desire to chance Fiendfyre destroying my work.”

 

The Dark Lord is quiet, thoughtful as he looks over her plans. It had been Blaise’s idea, the ship, having formed during the week she and Draco had spent in Naples nervously pacing his beautiful house. He’d been the one to offer his estate to her cause, citing it as a duty. As much as he might personally dislike Muggles, the thought of so much death made his stomach turn.

 

Because, of course, the ship won’t actually burst into flame and kill anyone aboard. It will reach America, on the Virginia coastline, where another small Zabini smuggling company will be waiting.

 

Having rich friends has its perks.

 

“I’ve also considered the idea of allowing Fenrir to tour the facilities on occasion,” she adds, keeping her voice light even as something inside her dies. “He has mentioned having trouble keeping his numbers up, with the recent attacks. He might be able to bolster his pack’s numbers, or at least satisfy his own need for sport. The vampires as well, I think, could make use of a certain number of the population.” She says it because it will sweeten the deal, it’ll make it possible for her 

 

It’s a hateful thing to wish on anybody, the life of a Dark Creature. Fenrir, at least, will take the children, as if his preference. But she’s come to realize, in her time among the wretches that make up the Inner Circle, sometimes a lesser evil is the best option. Better Dark than dead.

 

“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” the Dark Lord says finally. “It is certainly an idea worth looking into further, at least.”

 

She bows her head.

 

“The opportunity you have given me to serve you leaves no room for anything less than the best, my Lord,” she says demurely. “I desire only to see your goals of a better future met.”

 

He’s smiling at her, she can tell.

 

“And that is what makes you so special, Luna,” he says. “Your desire is so simple, and yet it accomplishes so many things.”

 

A cold hand brushes her cheek, forcing her to meet his eyes.

 

“Thank you, my Lord,” she whispers, slipping behind Occlumency walls of glass as she feels his mind probe her gently, ever so gently. “Thank you.”


	22. Chapter 22

_ Harry, _

_ Or is it Henry, now? Regardless, hey, it’s Neville— Hagan, now. I found out through a mutual friend that you were in the country— what a small world, it is, that we’ve both landed so close to each other. _

_ Our mutual friend, if you’re interested, is Timpani Graves— her brother and I are working on a project that could change the world, provided it doesn’t all fall to shit. She says you’ve ended up running something similar, albeit it on a more intimate scale. Fancy a dinner? I’ll be in Berkeley on the fourth of June through the eighth, staying at the Four Seasons on Redwood Road. We can have dinner on me— you can bring Ron and Hermione along too, if you like. _

_ Anyway, if you want to reach me, the number to my room’s 510-555-1234. I hope to see you. _

_ Hagan _

  
  


Henry had gotten the letter by Muggle mail on the first of June, and had responded in kind thanks to the return address in the top left corner. Yes, he’d be more than happy to see an old school friend, as would Jane and Ron, and would he mind if they brought along their partners (and in Jane’s case, her foster daughter)? He’d enclosed a phone number, and within days had received a call.

“Hermione’s got kids now?” is the first thing Hagan blurts out. “Sorry, Jane— everybody’s changing their name, nowadays.”

“Tell me about it— shit gets confusing, nowadays.” Henry pauses. “Hagan?”

He hears Hagan snort into the receiver.

“My aunt’s idea,” he says. “‘S my middle name. Makes me sound less like a puss.”

“As if you ever were.”

“You never struck me as a liar, Henry,” Hagan says, amused. “Anyway, back to the original question: Jane’s got kids now?”

“Just the one,” Henry says, glancing around to make sure he’s alone. “A girl, Chanelle— we got her out of Great Britain about a month ago.”

“Oh, shit. Who’s she related to?”

“No one— she’s a Muggleborn.” Henry leans against the wall. “You remember Daphne Greengrass, that Slytherin in our year?”

“I know the name.”

“Well, she ended up marrying Fred Weasley, and before they scarpered, she’d given a handful of well-placed people mailboxes— you know, the instant ones. She’s sort of been running a smuggling ring, getting Muggleborns out of Great Britain before the Snatchers get to them.”

“Only a Slytherin could manage that,” Hagan says. “How many have you gotten through?”

“A little over sixty.”

“Shit, where have you even been keeping them?”

“Some of them have been put in homes of friends permanently,” Henry says. “Others have bouncing around. We’re working on it— well, Fleur’s working on it. Fleur Delacour married Bill Weasley, by the way.”

“Lucky him.”

“He’d agree with you.” Henry shifts. “So, dinner?”

“Yeah. When’s the best time for you?”

“Pretty much anytime you’re around. Besides the bar, I’m pretty much homebound— I’ve got seven kids in my house, not including the ones Sirius and Remus adopted.” Henry sighs.

“Sounds… hectic.”

“A bit,” Henry agrees. “But it’s for a good cause, I suppose. We very well couldn’t leave them in Britain, after all— not after Daphne managed to find a way to get them out.”

“I get it,” Hagan says. “I’ve been keeping up with British news, at least. I’ve had to, considering it’s the biggest thing to be happening in the Magical World, right now. We’ve got a whole news program dedicated to it.”

“What?”

“Oh, right. Um— so this project I’ve been working on?” Hagan says. “It’s WixTV. I own half of the production company responsible.”

“WixTV?”

“Yeah, it’s a cable channel dedicated to Magically-based television. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner. Is the fifth alright?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Great— I’m happy you’re doing alright, Henry. It’s stupid, but I was a bit worried when I heard you’d buggered off to Australia— they’ve got an extradition treaty with England, you know.”

“Why do you think I chose America?” Henry chuckles. “I’ll see you on the fifth, Hagan.”

“Yeah. See ya.”

The phone line goes dead, and Henry hangs it back up on the hook.

That was an interesting conversation, Henry thinks to himself as he snags himself a beer from the fridge and settles onto the couch between two of the seven children scattered throughout the living room— Carl and Kenneth, aged six and nine, respectively. Neville— Hagan, now, Hagan— seems to be doing well for himself. There was no trace of the nervous awkwardness that Henry remembers from school in his voice, nothing but easy confidence and a hint of hesitance at the prospect of speaking with probably-a-fugitive Harry Potter, ex-roommate and runaway Boy-Who-Lived.

It was good to hear from him. Henry quite likes the idea of catching up with old friends.

*.*

Percy’s anonymous penpal and co-conspirator is, on occasion, unable to collect every child whose name he’d been given. Such things happen, of course, even if it hurts, and Percy often will simply… let it go.

Except this time, he gets a letter beforehand.

_ Entwhistle-Carter house suspected to be Muggleborn bolthole. Rather than Yellow Protocol, jumping to Black. Will be unable to perform extraction. _

Well, that won’t do, Percy thinks to himself, already reaching for a clean piece of parchment to respond. Justine Entwhistle-Carter is the little cousin of Kevin Entwhistle, a Hufflepuff who had cried when Percy had told him that he’d have to sleep with the other Hufflepuffs rather than with his Gryffindor friend. He’d always been a sweet, gentle boy, studious and obedient and good.

_ There hasn’t been a sighting of Entwhistle in months, _ he writes back, setting the parchment back in the box and shutting it. Almost immediately he gets a response.

_ Exactly. People are getting antsy. Does things that could harm the regime. Propaganda. _

Ah yes, the posters. Percy’s seen them, here and there, before they’re quickly covered with silencing charms and paint. Kevin has quite a gift regarding the rendering of human anatomy.

_ All the more reason to help, _ Percy shoots back.  _ We need people like him. We need to show them their work is helping. _

_ I’m sorry. Can’t. Too dangerous. No one to take up mantle should I be discovered. There’s more at stake than one girl. _

Percy flinches at that. They’d talked, early on, about the idea of Percy taking part in these extractions. He’d said no, claiming his position as an information gatherer to be too important to be put in jeopardy. The person at the other end of the box had called him a coward.

_ She needs to be saved. _ Percy remembers Kevin, big-eyed and wet-cheeked as his stared up at him, floppy brown hair sticking up in all directions. Percy’s done enough damage, if he could just—

The box glows with a response, so he flips it open, pulling the final page of their convesation from the box.

_ They all need to be saved. _


	23. Chapter 23

“Bishop, I think I found something!”

A box of files thunks onto the desk next to Bishop’s head, courtesy of a redfaced Eddie Nott.

“Why do you look like you took the stairs?” Bishop asks as Eddie strips off his coat and collapses into the chair opposite Bishop.

“’Cause I did,” Eddie says, breathless. “Something wrong with the fucking elevator again. But that’s not the point— the point is, Eddie, is that I found something.”

“So I hear,” Bishop says dryly. “What did you find, if I may ask?”

Eddie pulls the lid off the box.

_ “Murders.” _

Bishop arches an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Murders?” he says. “You found murders, detective? Good job. Now if we could only find the murderers…”

“Oh shut up, that’s not what I mean.” Eddie starts pulling out files, dropping them onto the desk between them. Some of them are barely a page thick. Some are thicker than Bishop’s thumb.

“What do you mean, then?”

“I went back through old case files,” Eddie says. “Looking to see if we’ve had any cases like Clearwater’s before— you know, indeterminate cause of death, wands, or, or those vials, maybe—“

Bishop sits up.

“And you found some?”

“Oh yeah. Seventy-eight cases, dating as far back as seventy-six.”

_ “… What?” _

Eddie digs through the pile of files now on Bishop’s desk and pulls out one of the thinner ones.

“This one,” he says. “Marlene McKinnon, aged twenty. Found in the Thames, purse still strapped to her shoulder. Contents of her bag included a wand— chestnut, this time— and three vials of strangely-colored liquid. It was ruled as an accidental drowning, except there was  _ no water _ in her lungs when they found her.

“She’s got the same story as Clearwater,” he continues. “Perfectly normal childhood, then at eleven she’s whisked away to some fancy boarding school that no one can find any trace of, showing up every summer until she was seventeen, then never seen again. Then there’s this one.”

He pulls out another file, this one even thinner.

“Joel Prescott, aged twenty-six. Found in his home on Fleet Street in late September, 1977. Among his belongings was an oak wand, along with several texts describing ‘cult-like activities’. Cause of death undetermined, but suspected carbon dioxide poisoning. He disappeared at eleven, too.” He looks up. “And it gets even more interesting.”

“How so?”

“Out of seventy-eight cases, _ fifteen _ of them are John or Jane Does,” Eddie says, pulling out two more files. “Some thirty-five deaths all took place between seventy-six and eighty-one, the last one being these two.”

He hands over the case files for Bishop to take. Flipping them open, he finds exactly what he expects to find— two photographs of corpses, one a man, and one a woman.

“Lily Evans— apparently later amended to Lily Potter— and her husband, James Potter,” Eddie says. “Found in the ruins of their home in Godric’s Hollow in eighty-one on November first. Lily’s story is the same as McKinnon and Prescott, but her husband…” Eddie taps on his file. “There was no trace of him. We didn’t even know his name until the bodies were identified.”

“Godric’s Hollow is out of our jurisdiction,” Bishop says, looking up.

Eddie nods.

“It was sent over as a part of a suspected serial killer case,” he says. “The detective working the case had asked for it. Never solved, of course, but…” he shrugs.

“How’d we get the husband’s name, then?” Bishop asks. “Who identified him?”

“A man by the name of Remus Lupin,” Eddie says. “I thought it was an alias, but I looked him up and it’s all there, birth certificate on. Funnily enough, he was also sent to a fancy boarding school no one seems to know much about. He said they were all schoolmates.”

“And no one thought to check on that?”

Another shrug.

“It was the seventies,” Eddie says. “There were bigger things to worry about.”

Riots, and punks, and drugs… yeah, Bishop could see something like this slipping through the cracks.

“What do the newer cases look like?” he asks. “What happened after eighty-one?”

“Well, for the most part, it stopped,” Eddie says, frowning slightly. “There were a few deaths that had similarities— wands, vials, texts— but they died in obvious ways. Poisoning, a few, old age, animal mauling—“

_ “Animal mauling?” _

“Some kind of dog, they think,” Eddie says. “It was a one-off, though, so it wasn’t really looked into. But yeah. It’s been pretty quiet in London until about five years ago, starting with a John Doe of about seventeen.”

He pulls out a file, and flips it open before handing it to Bishop. A brown-haired boy gazes up at him, eyes glazed over with death.

“He fell off a roof, officially, six blocks from King’s Cross Station,” Eddie says. “But there were a few things that didn’t add up— his clothes, for one, the presence of a broken wand, and a trunk.”

“A trunk?”

Eddie nods.

“Left on the roof,” he says. “Contents included a box of herbs and animal parts, more robes, feather quills, inkwells, books describing occult-practices, and… a stamp.”

“A stamp?”

“On the trunk,” Eddie says. “There’s a photo of it in there somewhere.”

Bishop frowns and thumbs through the papers, stopping when he finds the photograph of a strange, black and white crest.

_ “’Hogwarts?’” _ he reads. “Didn’t you say something about your Granddad talking about…”

Eddie nods emphatically.

“My best guest is that Granddad’s parents were involved in some kind of cult, or, or a secret society, maybe,” he says. “And for some reason or another, he didn’t make the cut, or… maybe they were trying to save him. I don’t know. But it’s been going on for years, Bishop. Right under our noses.”

“For this to work, they’ve got to have pull,” Bishop murmurs, setting down the file carefully. “Money, connections— kids disappearing would get noticed, otherwise.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We need to keep this to ourselves,” Bishop says. “We can’t— I trust each and every one of our people with my life, but this— if they’ve got someone high up keeping an eye out—“

Eddie nods sharply.

“We can’t keep this here,” he says, already reaching for the files to pack them back into the box. “We’ve got to put it all back, just as it was.”

 

“But we still need access— we need to see if there’s anything that might point to a reason, or God forbid, the killer himself.”

“I can make copies,” Eddie says immediately. “I can go to my Granddad’s, he’s got a copy machine—“

“No, better to keep him out of it if we can,” Bishop says. “He’s too close to this stuff, he could try to warn them, somehow.”

Eddie deflates.

“Then… what do you want me to do?”

Bishop reaches into his wallet and hands over all the cash he has on him.

“That’s a hundred quid,” he says. “You add as necessary. Take my car and go to the print shop on Third. Make four copies of each. When you’re done, put the originals back, and come pick me up. We can use my basement.”

Eddie nods sharply, taking the money and shoving it into his pocket.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” he says. “Two, tops.”

He pulls his coat off the chair, grabs the box, and catches the car keys when Bishop tosses them. He’s out the door in seconds.

A lead in the Clearwater case, Bishop thinks, leaning back in his chair. Fucking _ finally. _


	24. Chapter 24

There’s a collection of wands in evidence, decades old and forgotten in their neat little packages in the back of forensics. It was easy, really, for Murphy to take them, to slip them into his pockets to take home for his son and his friends to try.

The problem is, one of the people currently taking refuge in his house is a wandmaker— the wandmaker of Great Britain, in fact— and he has a _ very _ good memory.

“Noah Ginsberg,” he says sadly, lifting one of the wands from the pile with gentle fingers. “Elder and unicorn hair, eight inches, flexible. He had a mind for Runes, that one— I was considering him for an apprenticeship before he disappeared.”

Seamus is whittling the wand he’d chosen to a better shape for his hand, adding the same protective runes he’d carved into his old one. His new one apparently once belonged to a Laurel Baker, who’d been found with her intestines pouring out of her mouth. It’s nothing like his old wand—his old wand had been dogwood, with unicorn hair. This wand is cypress and dragon heartstring, and every time Murphy looks at it he feels sick.

He knows the reputation of cypress wood.

Dean hasn’t chosen one yet, hasn’t found one that fits, which means Murphy’s going to commit a few more thefts before the week is out.

Good thing no one gives a shit about forensics.

*.*

“Hagan!”

“Henry, Jane, Ron, how are you all!”

Hagan hugs each of them in turn— an American reaction to seeing old friends, but Henry supposes they’ve all gone native, one way or another. Hell, Ron barely has his accent, anymore.

“This is Jane’s boyfriend, Luis, and Chanelle, who’s staying with them for a little while,” Henry introduces. “And this is Ron’s girlfriend, Jenny. They’re in the know.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Hagan says, shaking both their hands. “Get anything you like— I’m putting it all as business expenses, in the end.”

“Business expenses?” Jane asks as Luis pulls out a chair for her. “Henry mentioned something about a… television station?”

“Yep— WixTV. TV for the Magical masses.” Hagan smiles slightly. “My business partner, Marlowe— Marlowe Graves— started out as an author, writing Magical stories for a Muggle audience.”

“That’s… isn’t that illegal, though?” Jenny asks.

“Not much worse than us,” Ron points out.

“Technically, yes, it’s illegal,” Hagan admits. “But nobody caught him, and people really got interested in the world Marlowe was… ‘building’, let’s say. Which was his whole plan all along.”

“Why’s that?” Jane asks.

Hagan sighs.

“His thinking is that Muggle technology is catching up to us in a lot of ways,” he says. “So he thought that by putting out information beforehand will soften the blow when they find out about us.”

“Do you think— no, of course you think it’ll happen. Why else would you be involved?” Jane shakes her head. “Hagan, this is really dangerous.”

Hagan waves a dismissive hand.

“You don’t have to tell me— my Aunt Olympia’s already gone through all the worst case scenarios. Vividly. In detail.” He shudders slightly. “MACUSA’s far stricter than the Ministry ever was, and with good reason, I suppose. Their history’s a muddy one.

“But it’s important, I think, which is why I’m involved.” The waitress appears at his shoulder, carrying a bottle of wine and a tray of glasses. He waits for her to pour for them all, then continues.

“We’re international, now, and the only Magical news outlet that is giving every scrap of truth we can find,” he says. “Have you been tuned into Phoenixwatch?”

Blank stares. Hagan sighs.

“As I’m sure you’ve all realized, Britain’s fucked,” he says. “Lee Jordan is running an underground magical radio station to report on the news and get people to safe havens. Everything’s coded, and the password to the station changes every week. He reads out the weekly death toll, talks Death Eater movements, that sort of thing. It’s… really informative.”

Hagan sobers when he says that, reaching for his wine.

“I’ve been transcribing his stuff and having people read it out over our broadcast,” he says. “We’re international too, and… maybe somebody will do something. I mean, it’s not just affecting Magicals, anymore. I mean, you were the one who told me about all those kids you’ve been getting, and now with whole towns disappearing—“

“Whole towns?” Luis says sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Rumor has it camps are being opened,” Hagan says quietly, leaning forward. “They’re emptying out the Muggle-populated towns and putting them away to await… extermination.”

“That fucking Nazi!” Jenny squeaks, then covers her mouth with a hand.

“That’s fucked up,” Henry says. “Do— does anybody know what’s happening?”

“Not really,” Hagan admits. “We don’t know where Lee’s getting the info at all, but we’ve got our own contacts confirming. They opened two months ago, on the Zabini estate.”

“That snake!” Ron hisses.

“That about sums it up,” Hagan agrees. “Draco Malfoy’s wife came up with the idea— she’s the warden of both camps.”

“Who—“

“Luna Lovegood,” Hagan says softly. “She married him after she graduated Hogwarts. Apparently she’s become quite the bosom friend of the Dark Lord’s— she asked him to be godfather to her first child.”

Henry shivers at the thought. Voldemort, holding a baby? Giving it its bottle and playing peekaboo? Horrifying.

“I think it should be noted that things aren’t all as they seem,” he says softly.

Hagan arches an eyebrow.

“Oh?” he says. “Do you know something I don’t, Henry?”

“I do,” Henry says. “But if I tell you, you’ll need to keep it to yourself.”

Hagan holds up a hand.

“On my magic,” he says. “What do you know, Henry?”

“Malfoy’s involved in the smuggling of Muggle children across our borders,” Henry says. “He’s been personally delivering the children to our middleman, who in turn is bringing them to us.”

Hagan’s eyes widen.

“So maybe those camps—“

“I wouldn’t go so far,” Henry says, holding up a hand. “I don’t know if the wife’s in the know, and even if she is, they have to put on a good show to ensure that their master remains pleased with their work.”

“That’s disgusting, Cardy,” Jenny whispers.

“It’s life,” Henry shoots back. “We’re looking at a genocide, Jenny. Even the people who want to help can’t help everyone— not if they want to survive. You said he’s got a kid now?”

Hagan nods.

“And another one on the way,” he adds.

“If he’s a good father, he’ll survive for his children,” Henry says. “My parents couldn’t manage that for me, they were so swept up in their war. Good on him for trying to do that.”

“It’s still disgusting, Henry,” Ron says reproachfully.

“I don’t disagree,” Henry says. “But the kids we’ve got are thanks to him, and I don’t think we should forget about that, either.”

There’s a moment of uncomfortable quiet.

“We should change the subject,” Luis says after a moment, turning to Hagan. “I don’t know much about television production. What is it you do, exactly?”

Hagan looks relieved, and launches into an explanation regarding the rules and regulations and loopholes of show business that’s only interrupted by the waitress coming to take their orders and the occasional interjection from Jane.

Henry had forgotten what it was like, having little, intimate gatherings like this. His life has been a madhouse for so long, constantly full of people— good people, kind people, but still— wandering in and out of his home and life. No one bothers to knock anymore, because they all know they’re welcome, and Henry wouldn’t revoke their invitation for anything, because he rather loves them all.

Still. It’s nice.

*.*

  
  


“Hagan seems really lovely,” Chanelle says on their walk home. “Do you think he’d let me be on his shows?”

 

Jane smiles and Luis hides a giggle with a cough.

 

“I’m sure he’d let you audition, if anything came up,” Jane says. “But he won’t just give it to you. You’ll have to prove yourself.”

 

Chanelle flips her long braid back over her shoulder.

 

“I’m not taking anything more than what I deserve,” she says. “My daddy says you’re not worth anything if you don’t work.”

 

“I don’t know if that’s necessarily true, but work can certainly be satisfying,” Jane says. “Maybe we can look into some of those acting classes at the community center.”

 

Henry grins as Chanelle’s eyes light up at the idea, and speeds up just enough to get out of her way.

 

She’s starting to get a bit like Jane, in some ways.


	25. Chapter 25

“Oh, Bella, they’re beautiful,” Narcissa coos, peering down into the crib. Despite Luna’s reservations on the subject of Bella’s potential as a mother, she has to agree. Shylock and Lavinia are gorgeous, even in their fleshy, newborn states. They both have their mother’s curls, that much is obvious even now, though Lavinia appears to have inherited her father’s coloring, her thick patch of hair tinged maroon in the light.

The pregnancy was hard on Bellatrix, as was the birth. She’s old to be having children, even for a witch, and had spent the last three months of her pregnancy on strict bedrest, which hadn’t sat well with her at all. Even though not much has changed— her healer has kept her restricted to light activity with ample rest time in between— she’s positively glowing where she’s settled on the couch by the cradle, hair pulled back in a style Luna’s never seen her wear before and wearing a light lilac dress suitably equipped for a nursing mother.

“I knew they would be,” Bellatrix admits softly, smiling. That’s another thing that Luna’s never seen before, that softness. While she has always been civil with Luna and the others lucky enough to be considered Inner Circle, there has always been an edge to her ways, an undercurrent of rage and loathing that was only ever just barely controlled.

Luna shifts Vindemiatrix’s position in her arm just slightly, to give her daughter a better look at her father’s first cousins.

“That’s your aunt and uncle,” she whispers to her daughter, rocking her gently. “Say hello, Vindemiatrix.”

Vindemiatrix gurgles, reaching for the sleeping twins with a pudgy hand.

Narcissa giggles.

“She’s excited to have new playmates,” she says, nudging her sister fondly. “Oh, they’ll all be in the same year at Hogwarts, can you just picture it?”

Bellatrix hums, eyes distant.

“Cissy,” she says after a moment. “Can I have a moment with Luna alone, if you please?”

Narcissa glances between them, brow furrowing just slightly before something like realization crosses her face. Clearly, she has a better idea of what’s going on than Luna does.

“Of course,” she says, smiling slyly. “I’ll go see if the menfolk need anything, shall I?”

She slips out of the little nursery, still grinning to herself, and Luna is left alone with Bellatrix Lestrange for the first time ever.

Bellatrix’s gaze is unreadable, so Luna just stares back, pretending that the grip she has on her daughter isn’t white-knuckled and frightened.

“Narcissa says you’re a good mother,” she says suddenly, words flat.

Luna blinks.

“That’s very kind of her.”

“I won’t be a good mother,” Bellatrix says. “I don’t have the patience for children, nor does Rodolphus. You, however, appear to have quite a knack for the work. I’d like you to act as my au paire.”

“I— pardon?”

“It will take time to cement our Lord’s regime, once we have cleared the Isles of Muggle scum,” Bellatrix says, and it’s the sanest she’s ever sounded. “I simply don’t have the time to be running around playing mother, not with all the work to be done. You, however, haven’t taken the Mark. You believe, and you obey, but you’re a wallflower, free to take on the duties no one else wants.”

“But— Lady Lestrange, you seem so happy,” Luna says, eyes wide. “Surely you don’t really think you’d be so terrible for them.”

“I am,” Bellatrix says. “I have two beautiful, Pureblood children, an heir to the Lestrange line and a pretty daughter to put in fancy dresses. I couldn’t be happier. But I have my Lord, and the work he gives me, and I won’t sacrifice my duties to handle a pair of children too small to do anything but cry.” She softens, looking at the cradle. “In a few years, when the world is safer, perhaps, but for now… better to keep them away from political chaos until it’s all sorted.”

Luna doesn’t know what to do. She’s never heard Bellatrix sound so reasonable, so careful and eloquent and thoughtful. She’s never seen the woman practice practicality or subtlety or anything Luna was taught to expect from adults.

“Of course I can take them on,” Luna says before the silence goes on too long. “How would you like this to be handled?”

 

“They’ll stay with you,” Bellatrix says immediately. “And only be brought to the functions I specify, or to private family dinners. Sunday afternoons will be free for my husband and myself to visit at our leisure.”

 

Luna bows her head.

 

“That is more than manageable,” she says. “I would be happy to take on the responsibility, Lady Lestrange. Thank you for thinking of me.”

 

“Would you like to hold them?” Bellatrix asks. “I can take Vindemiatrix for a moment.”

 

The thought makes Luna recoil, but she can’t say no, so instead she plasters on a pleasant smile.

 

“Of course, Lady Lestrange. I would love to.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“I think I may have something here,” Eddie says, making Bishop start. They’d been spending their Saturday morning going through the files Eddie had collected and copied, painstakingly making notes and organizing all the information in a way that might disclose a pattern, that might explain something besides death.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Noah Ginsberg, nineteen seventy-eight,” Eddie says. “Eye-witnesses claim that a man in a black dress pointed some kind of weapon at Ginsberg, which shot some kind of green light. When it touched Ginsberg, he collapsed, apparently dead. Then— now get this— his attacker  _ disappeared into thin air.  _ Right in the middle of a busy market.”

 

“Have we got a description of the guy?” Bishop asks, moving to lean over Eddie’s shoulder.

 

“Yep— a young man with long, blond hair and a black cane with a silver top, possibly shaped like a snake.” Eddie looks up. “A killer with a taste for drama, it seems.”

 

Bishop’s mouth pinches.

 

“See if we can find any other descriptions matching this guy,” he says. “And start looking into other eyewitness statements. If we’re right about the cult thing, he probably wasn’t working alone.”

 

Eddie nods sharply, already reaching for a new file and his notebook.

 

“I’ll write down what I find, you write down what you find, we’ll try to match up when we’re finished? Maybe we can get a better picture of these people.”

 

“Good plan. When are you picking up the kids?”

 

“They’re spending the night,” Eddie says. “Figured it’d be easier than giving them a time and being late anyway.”

 

It is, but something about the way Eddie says it makes Bishop think it’s not the only reason his partner decided on that plan.

 

Whatever. It’s none of his business.


	26. Chapter 26

Lyra can feel war under her fingers, but it’s still distant, still beyond the horizon. Still, it thrums through her weapons of choice, her shield and her axe, and rings with every swing as she prepares her men for battle.

 

She says men. Nearly half of her assembled warriors are women, with a handful neither here nor there. But men makes them sound like the warriors of old, like the stories her father told her of ancient battles and devastating plagues.

 

One day, Lyra thinks as her gaze sears the backs of her soldiers on the training grounds below. One day her name will be counted among the great tales. She’ll bet her life on it.

  
  


*.*

  
  


“We’re running out of space,” Blaise mutters as he looks over the numbers again. It’s been three months since Luna’s camps open and six months since they hatched their marvelous plan, and yet they’d never stopped to consider what happens after, when all the people are saved.

 

Muggles require a lot of paperwork, to exist. Documents upon documents that prove they are who they are and live where they’re allowed. Blaise has never even  _ heard _ of a bloody social security number before, and yet here, it’s a necessity.

 

So here he finds himself, his family’s American lands full to bursting with Muggles with more on the way. He has the money to support them, for now, but it won’t last long, and surely it won’t support them all. Three thousand displaced British Muggle citizens, all of them requiring medical care and explanations, and there’s only Blaise.

 

Well, Blaise and Pansy, but she can only do so much herself, considering she’s still required to be at certain functions back in Great Britain. Appearances, and all that. Blaise hasn’t bothered. He’s spent nearly decade perfecting his careless rich whore persona. No one will think twice if he doesn’t show up to a few parties.

 

Sighing, Blaise pulls off his reading glasses and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. He needs to think of something, and he needs to think of it quickly.

 

“Mr. Z?”

 

Blaise flinches and turns to see one of the Muggles he’s been keeping in the main house. Altogether, there’s probably eighty of them, none of them older than fifteen, and all of them orphaned.

 

He’s barely twenty years old. They all treat him like he’s much older, though.

 

The boy in the doorway to his study is one of the older ones, fourteen and quite studious, in his way. He’s the only one Blaise has allowed access to his study, though only when Blaise himself is inside. His name is Freedom, which Blaise finds to be somewhat ironic, and he has developed an interest in Potions— at least, the ones a Muggle can make, which covers all the material up to and including seventh year texts.

 

“There’s dinner on the table,” he says, crossing his arms. “Ali says you’re to eat something, today.”

 

Blaise sighs again. That’s another thing that’s different about the American estates. There are no house elves, and as such, the children that stay in his home have taken it upon themselves to handle most mundane tasks. Blaise had fought them on it, because really, it isn’t that hard to buy elves, but the faces they’d made at the very concept of the creatures had reminded him of Granger, so he’d backed down rather quickly.

 

“I’ll be right down,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I just need to finish a few things—”

 

“Ali says you’re to come now,” Freedom interrupts. “Because there’s a guest waiting in the atrium, and Ali can’t get rid of him or ask him to dinner without you triggering the wards, first.”

 

Blaise freezes.

 

“A— guest?” he chokes, pushing himself to his feet.  _ “Here?  _ Who?”

 

“He says his name is Merrick Greengrass,” Freedom informs him. “And that he’s here to talk with you about arrangements that need arranging. His exact words, not mine.”

 

_ “Greengrass?”  _ The Greengrass patriarch disappeared soon after his elder daughter’s marriage to a Weasley and his younger daughter’s successful magical mutilation to avoid her own marriage. Rumor has it the social embarrassment was too much for him.

 

Blaise rushes past Freedom, tugging the front of his house robes shut with a hand in an effort to look more put together than he actually is. He practically skids into the atrium, eyes wild as he zeroes in on the man that can’t be anybody else than Daphne Greengrass’ father.

 

Mr. Greengrass smiles at him calmly, like he isn’t surprised to see Blaise in such a state and doesn’t happen to be caught in a statue ward.

 

“Mr. Zabini,” he greets. “When I heard a rumor that you were involved in the Muggle Internment Camp that had recently constructed in Great Britain, I have to say… I wasn’t expecting this.”

 

“Why are you here?” Blaise demands. “Who sent you?”

 

“Sent me? Nobody sent me, young man. I’m too old to be _ sent  _ places.” Mr. Greengrass wrinkles his nose. “No, no, nothing like that. I simply meant to trigger your wards, to draw you here and kill you. My daughter was quite upset, you know, when she heard her favorite schoolmate was sullying his family name with a genocide. I do hate it when my girls are upset, you understand.” He strains a moment, like he meant to move but realized he couldn’t. He sighs. “Now, however, I find my plan is quite unnecessary, and a new plan has formed. Tell me, Mr. Zabini, how long do you think you can sustain your current batch of refugees?”

 

Accounts flicker through Blaise’s memory unbidden. Mr. Greengrass smiles.

 

“Well,” he says. “I know more than a few people involved in a project similar to yours, and I believe it would be in both your benefit to connect you— er, might you release your wards?”

 

“You just said you’d come to kill me,” Blaise points out, voice marvelously reasonable considering the situation.

 

“Yes, yes, but that was before,” Mr. Greengrass says, rolling his eyes. “Now, though, now… I think I could help you and your charges quite a bit. I am, after all, something of a man of the law.”

 

“Which law?”

 

“Whichever benefits me most in my profession,” Mr. Greengrass answers promptly. “Currently, I take my direction from my daughter, who takes her direction from a man who once went by the name of Harry Potter. Perhaps you know him?”

 

Blaise goes very, very still. The wards release Mr. Greengrass, who slump rather inelegantly for a moment before straightening once more.

  
“Where the hell,” Blaise starts quietly. “Is _ Harry Potter?” _


	27. Chapter 27

“The school’s coming along quite well,” Fleur says as she leads Henry through the finished Magical Studies Wing. “The dormitories are finished, as well as the main dining hall and the kitchens. In theory, we’ll be able to house just under a thousand students and staff members.”

 

“Aiming high, are we?” Henry asks, smiling slightly.

 

“Well, we don’t really know how many children will be coming, will we?” Fleur says. “And anyway, I was thinking… perhaps in the future, when things aren’t so bad, maybe… perhaps Muggles might be able to take classes here, too? The siblings of Muggleborns, I mean. And Squibs, too.”

 

“... It could solve more than a few problems,” Henry says after a moment. “But how do you plan to juggle that sort of school? A few Muggle classes is one thing, but that…”

 

“I’d have to hire a full Muggle staff,” Fleur says, nodding. “Luis and I have been playing with the idea of perhaps spreading out the years, starting younger, you know, and doing two weeks of Magical schooling with Muggle review in the afternoons, and then two weeks of Muggle schooling with Magical review. Or something like that. I’m not sure, yet, but… it’s a start.”

 

Henry hums thoughtfully.

 

“You know something,” he decides after a moment. “Something I haven’t been told, yet. What is it?”

 

Fleur makes a face.

 

“It might be better if Daphne tells you,” she says. “I mean, nothing’s even been finalized, yet, so—”

 

“Fleur,” Henry says. “Tell me.”

 

Fleur sighs.

 

“Apparently, Mr. Greengrass is a bit madder than we initially realized,” she says. “And made contact with Lord Zabini.”

 

Henry stares at her.

 

“... You mean, the man who is responsible for the land now housing two internment camps?” he says carefully, like maybe he misunderstood.  _ “That  _ Lord Zabini?”

 

“He’s involved in a plot to smuggle Muggles out of Britain,” Fleur says quietly. “Organized by the younger Mrs. Malfoy and her husband. He’s been ferrying them by the hundreds to his family estate in Virginia.”

 

Henry goes quiet for a minute.

 

“And Merrick,” he starts. “Has likely decided that the man needs a hand, and put him in contact with Daphne to start organizing the mass immigration of Muggles to… here? To Paradise Valley?”

 

“She didn’t want to bother you with it until they had a solid plan in place,” Fleur says apologetically. “She knows you prefer finished products to half-formed ideas.”

 

Henry sighs and rubs at his temples. Mad men. He’s surrounded by mad men. Mad men who think themselves revolutionaries and are probably close to right.

 

“Fuck, okay,” he says. “Fine. How many are coming?”

 

“Well, there’s some three thousand currently at the Zabini estate, according to Lord Zabini’s calculations,” Fleur says. “But only some three hundred would be healthy enough for the move, currently. Possibly more, by the time we have enough housing completed.”

 

Henry tries not to groan.

 

“Alright,” he says. “Alright, we need a plan. A proper plan. I need to talk to Daphne.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“I didn’t want to tell you until we had an idea of how we were going to accommodate _ three thousand people.” _

 

“Three thousand people is a hell of a lot of people to be kept in the dark about,” Henry shoots back irritatedly. “How the fuck are you even going to manage this all?”

 

Daphne straightens, tugging at the hem of her hot pink halter top.

 

“Well,” she says. “Procyon Black has agreed to donate Paradise Valley and the surrounding acreage to you. That’s a start.”

 

“To— to me?” Henry says. “Why _ me?” _

 

Daphne rolls her eyes.

 

“Come off it, Henry,” she says. “You might not be the one coming up with the projects, but you’re the final say in everything. You’re the one who organized the meeting to help settle the first group of children to arrive. You’re the one who keeps track of the money needed to keep each child happy wherever they end up. You’re the one who currently has, what, _ eighteen  _ children in his house, now?”

 

“Twenty-three, and that’s not the bloody point,” Henry says flatly. “I left because I didn’t want to be a leader, Daphne— I don’t want to be involved in all this!”

 

“Tough shit, Henry,” she retorts. “You’re in it, whether you like it or not. You’re— you’re the fucking _ king,  _ do you realize that? You’re the one who keeps order, who shows compassion where it’s appropriate and does what’s needed when mercy isn’t the answer. Your actions— the houses you buy, the people you befriend, the home you’ve built— it’s affected all of us, from Ron and his music to Jane and her photography to me and  _ my  _ life here. Do you think I’d be saving Muggleborns if Fred hadn’t had the sense to follow you to America? Do you think I’d be happy bowing and scraping to the Dark Lord, or rotting in a cell in Azkaban for my husband’s name? You started this all, so don’t you dare turn around and say you don’t want to be involved. You are, and it’s your bloody duty to make sure everything turns out alright!”

 

_ “Duty,”  _ Henry spits. “What do you think it was I was running away from?”

 

“It isn’t your duty to _ die  _ for us,” Daphne says angrily. “Anyone who thought it was didn’t understand true obligation. Your death means nothing to the people who are healing in the Zabini estate, or the children who are safe and happy with families who are willing to care for them. So long as you’re alive, you have a responsibility, just like everyone else in this entire _ fucking  _ world.”

 

Her chest is heaving by the time she finishes, anger making her cheeks flush red and her normally warm blue eyes sparkle like ice chips. Her hands are clenched, her knuckles white. Henry has never seen her like this.

 

“... By your estimation, what are my duties, then?” he asks quietly, feeling himself deflate. “What does… what does a _ king  _ owe his people?”

 

“A king owes his men the ability to pull his head out of his own ass,” she says flatly. “And once he does that, it’s about making sure they live prosperous, happy lives, safe in the knowledge that what was done to them will never, ever happen again, that he won’t allow it, no matter what it takes.”

 

“Oh, is that all?”

 

“It’s a start,” Daphne says, arching an eyebrow. “I suppose I can give you more direction when you need it.”

 

“You’re quite good at that,” Henry agrees. He sighs. “Alright. Show me what you have, so far.”

 

Daphne stares at him for a moment, before reaching for one of the shelves beside her desk and pulling out a thick green binder.

 

“Paradise Valley itself isn’t very large, and the school will take up most of the land, not including the graveyard,” she says. “But we have the surrounding lands, some fifty miles in all directions.”

 

“Three thousand people— and probably more, honestly, will be moving there,” he says as she lays out her maps. “That’s not a lot of land, for three thousand people.”

 

“If we can really get this started, Blaise estimates a million more refugees coming through the Zabini Estate,” Daphne says. “Possibly other creatures, as well. There are centaurs on the British Zabini property, and a goblin mine.”

 

“Of course there are,” Henry mutters. “Alright, fine. We’ll deal with creatures later. Maybe I can buy a bloody mountain, or something.”

 

Daphne doesn’t laugh, which makes Henry’s stomach sink, just a little bit. Fuck, he might have to buy a mountain.

 

“Can we farm any of the land?” he asks.

 

“Not without Magical aid, but I can talk to Longbottom about that,” she says. “His family has connections in the necessary fields.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I’m thinking— if we do reach a million, it might a good idea to build upward,” Daphne says. “Not quite skyscrapers, but… Apartments. A lot of them.”

 

“Not everyone will like that,” Henry muses.

 

“Then they can move once we get the proper paperwork through,” Daphne says. “I’m looking for something sustainable, right now.”

 

Henry nods.

 

“Alright.” He sighs. “I assume you’ve already gotten Fleur started on blueprints. Show me what you two have.”


	28. Chapter 28

Doctor Mark Benson, MD, died in 1988 of AIDS, leaving behind a partner by the name of Angel Diaz. Angel joined him on the other side six months later, except he… he decided to _ go on. _

 

Ginny sits quietly and listens as Mark explains the disease, how it spread and who it affected, what was done to quell the tide. Not much, she’s starting to realize. Not until it started affecting people who weren’t queer.

 

The idea makes her stomach turn. What kind of government would allow its people to suffer and die? She understands hatred, feels it burn in her gut whenever she thinks of her father, dead before she finished school, and she knows what it means. But Mark never did anything but help people— he was a pediatrician, before he got sick. Most of the ghosts she’s spoken to in the Castro have proven to be lovely, friendly people, who had lives and jobs and stories about beautiful people and beautiful times. How could anyone hate them?

 

“Do you mind,” she starts slowly, when there’s a pause in conversation. “If I write this all down? I feel like… I just feel like I should.”

 

Mark gives her a silvery smile.

 

“Oh, no, I don’t mind,” he says. “I always used to say I’d write a book, you know. Before I died.”

 

“About what?” Ginny asks. “Medical stuff?”

 

“Oh, maybe before all this,” Mark says, gesturing towards his translucent form. “Now, though… now I think it’d be more important to write about… me, I guess? My life. I think it’s important, you know, for people like me to know you can be gay and be happy.” He snorts. “I’d write about all the things I wish I’d said to my mother when I came out. The snappy one-liners I came up with years later, lying awake in my bed.”

 

“I’ll write it down for you,” Ginny says immediately. “I’ll write it all down. If you want, I’ll send your mother a copy, too.”

 

Mark stares at her a moment.

 

“... You really would do that, wouldn’t you?” he says, and he seems a little… surprised. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

 

“Say yes,” Ginny says. “Say yes, and I’ll do it. For you too, Louie. If you want.” She looks to the other ghost, floating just above the chair in the hotel room she’d rented for the night in an approximation of the lotus position.

 

Louie blinks.

 

“All I want is to tell my dad his fag son got laid more than he ever has,” Louie says. “No book for me, thanks. I’m not that interesting.”

 

“I’ll write him a letter, then,” Ginny says. “And I’ll address it from you.”

 

Louie gives her a broad grin.

 

“You’re a pretty cool kid, Ginny,” he says. “Be careful, though. There’s a lot of guys who want to have the last word with their families— you might get mobbed.”

 

“I’ll write for every one of them,” she says. “I’ll get help, if I have to.”

 

There’s a pause, and the two ghosts look over at each other.

 

“I think you’re going to have to get some supplies,” Mark says after a moment. “A pen and some paper, at least. You’ve got the room for the night?”

 

Ginny nods.

 

“We’ll do Louie first, then,” Mark says. “Since his is gonna be a little bit shorter, I think.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Henry spends a lot of time thinking about what Daphne said, during their conversation about Paradise Valley and duty and the things that come with being… _ king. _

 

King. Henry doesn’t like that word. He’s nobody’s king. He’s just a little boy that ran away from home and accidentally brought half of Great Britain with him. He was never meant to lead, not even by blood. The Potters, at best, were a minor Pureblood line, technically vassals of the Dumbledores at one time, and doesn’t that explain so much?

 

But still. It’s an odd thing to think about, Following Daphne’s logic, there have to be other positions to fill, shouldn’t there? There are nobles, and jesters, and knights. Daphne, definitely, is his advisor— the King’s Hand, as it were. She’d probably like a title like that.

 

He can’t really place anyone else. Ron, perhaps, is a bard, though he’s more than capable at playing knight every now and again, if first year is any indication. The twins are jesters, as is Sirius, and everyone else… are they courtiers? Are there servants to be counted among his court?

 

No, Henry thinks. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like the title king at all.

 

He’s just… Henry.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Harry Potter— Henry Potter, Lord of the Potter House— has asked to meet with Blaise, to discuss the particulars of the mass migration that is being planned far more quickly than Blaise can really keep up with. It’s not often a boon like that falls into a person’s lap like it has for Blaise, and he can admit— at least, in the privacy of his own mind— that he’s more than a little nervous.

 

The chosen meeting place is a casino in Wyoming, a tourist attraction on an Indian reservation. Blaise has brought Pansy with him, for support, and Freedom, because he’s quiet and observant and a knack for seeing through bullshit that makes Blaise think he could have an excellent career in law, one day. Also because the kids felt uncomfortable letting Blaise go ‘alone’.

 

He was never going to go alone, of course, but the concern for him is touching.

 

Pansy is dressed in a floor-length blue Muggle gown that is a touch too refined for their surroundings, looking every inch the Pureblood heiress she’s meant to be. Beside her, Blaise stands in a Muggle suit chosen for him by Marie, one of the girls staying in his house. She’d been dreaming of going into fashion, before she was taken, and has a good eye for fabric. Still, he feels uncomfortable in the Muggle clothing, for all that he’s doing his best not to look it. It’s too revealing, for his taste, too tight around his legs and his arms and his shoulders.

 

Freedom goes to speak to one of the men standing behind the counter in the entrance hall of the casino, a man with long black hair pulled back into a tight braid. As they talk, Blaise can see the man’s dark eyes dart between Freedom’s face and where Blaise and Pansy are standing, sharp with something Blaise doesn’t recognize. He nods tightly at Freedom, gesturing for one of the women dressed in a sharp red suit to come to them. He says something to Freedom that makes him nod, and then Freedom returns to them, the woman in red trailing after him.

 

“This is Donna Blackbird,” Freedom introduces, gesturing to the woman. “She’s going to take us to the conference room booked for our meeting.”

 

“Right this way,” the woman says, turning on her heel with the expectation that they’ll follow, which, of course, they do.

 

She leads them down a long stretch of corridors into an elevator, pulling out a small keycard and swiping it before pressing the button for their floor. When the elevator stops, she continues down the winding hallways, stopping in front of a tall yellow door.

 

“Mr. Potter is waiting for you in here,” she says. “Refreshments will be brought.”

 

And just like that, she disappears, striding down the hall like she isn’t the least bit curious as to why they’re there. Perhaps she was trained to walk that way.

 

Glancing at Pansy’s slightly irritated face, Blaise straightens his shoulders and turns the knob.

 

Henry Potter is waiting them, talking quietly with a blonde woman from his place in a large leather armchair. Long gone are the tattered hand-me-downs Blaise remembers from their school days, and instead the man is dressed in a plain gray cardigan and white-toed sneakers, the top button of his white shirt unbuttoned and no tie to be seen. He and the woman pause in their conversation as Blaise’s party files into the room, door shutting with a quiet  _ snick!  _ behind them.

 

“Zabini,” Henry says, pushing himself to his feet and ambling over. “Nice of you to show.”

 

He reaches out to shake Blaise’s hand.

 

“When you get an invitation like yours, it’s hard to say no,” Blaise says. “Thank you for speaking with us.”

 

“It’s no trouble,” Henry says, smiling tightly at him. “And this would be Parkinson, yes? Pansy Parkinson?”

 

“You say that like you don’t remember me,” Pansy says, giving him her best socialite smile. “You’ve cleaned up, a bit.”

 

“Not as well as a Pureblood, I imagine,” Henry says, and the smile he gives her is a little bit more mischievous. “And who’s this?”

 

Freedom steps forward and shakes Henry’s hand.

 

“Freedom Brown, sir,” the teenager says. “I live with Mr. Z.”

 

“Freedom,” Henry says. “That’s a damn good name, if you don’t mind my saying.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

The blonde woman clears her throat pointedly, and Henry blinks.

 

“Damn, this manners shit is impossible,” he says, stepping back. “Mr. Zabini, Miss Parkinson, Mr. Brown, may I introduce my associate, Mrs. Daphne Weasley?”

 

Holy shit, it is her, Blaise thinks a little stupidly as Daphne smiles warmly at them, stepping forward to kiss him on the cheek.

 

“Blaise, it’s good to see you,” she says, pulling away. “Pansy.”

 

“Daphne.” The women exchange kisses and Daphne leans down to kiss Freedom, who seems a little thunderstruck, though probably for different reasons than Blaise is. Daphne was always beautiful, even when they were teenagers, but standing before them, dressed in a knee-length orange number with her hair done in two blonde buns and her eyes ringed in black, she looks like… she doesn’t look like a Pureblood, but damn, does she look good.

 

“Shall we have a seat?” Henry says when Daphne is finished exchanging greetings. “I’m having whisky brought up— it’s Muggle, but it’s not bad.”

 

Blaise glances at Pansy, then looks back at Henry.

 

“That sounds just fine.”


	29. Chapter 29

“So we ran a census, as you asked,” Blaise says, bringing out the copies of his notes that he’d had made to pass out. Henry nods, flipping open the cover page to read over the neatly printed notes that one of the older Muggles had taken to a print shop in the nearby Muggle town. “Of the Muggles currently residing on the Zabini Virginia estate, approximately three hundred and eighty-three are currently healthy enough that I would risk having them moved.”

 

“And the others?” Henry asks.

 

Blaise sighs.

 

“Across the board, we’re dealing with malnutrition and mental illness,” he says. “Despite medical treatment, we still have people dying every day— we got to them too late, and Magical healing isn’t as effective on Muggles, we’ve found. On top of that, we have forty-eight cases of lycanthropy among the younger children. Initially, we had eighty-three, but some didn’t survive the initial transformation.”

 

_ “Lycanthropy?” _ Daphne exclaims. 

 

“Greyback,” Blaise says flatly. “Part of the charm of these camps is that certain members of the Inner Circle are able to… indulge in certain desires.”

 

“He killed more,” Freedom pipes up quietly. “In the camps. My sister.”

 

Henry’s eyes go dark with fury.

 

“I thought this was being used as a way to save Muggles,” he says quietly. “These Malfoy camps.”

 

“Luna’s making the best of a bad situation,” Blaise says. “But appearances need to be kept if she’s to continue her work. That means making compromises.”

 

Henry grits his teeth, but thankfully lets it go.

 

“Anything else?” he says. “I assume the vampires get their fair share, as well.”

 

Blaise nods.

 

“Only six cases of vampirism, so far,” he says. “From what I understand, they’re more invested in draining their victims dry than turning them.”

 

Daphne pinches her lips.

 

“This doesn’t look good, Blaise,” she says at last.

 

“The camps are a horror,” Pansy says, looking down. “And they’re looking to make more. The numbers are promising, in the Dark Lord’s eyes— some seventy percent of the initial group has been terminated, according to Luna’s books— of that seventy percent, forty-eight percent survived long enough to be placed on the ships.”

 

Those numbers are good, Blaise knows it, and Henry seems to know it, too, if the defeated sigh is any indication.

 

“Daphne and several other associates are working on making the lands we’ve chosen an acceptable place to hide,” he says. “A school was already in the works, for the placement of a separate project involving the smuggling of Muggleborns to America.”

 

“Draco.” Blaise sighs. “He’s taking them to you, then?”

 

“Indirectly. I don’t believe he’s aware of my involvement in the matter.” He glances at Daphne, who shakes her head.

 

“As it stands we have nearly two hundred children bouncing around the houses of our friends and extended family,” she says. “The school was going to be a way to give them a more permanent home, though we’re still working out the details for the care of the younger ones.”

 

“Well, there’s always house elves,” Blaise says.

 

“If we purchase more than three house elves we’ll need to be registered,” Daphne says, shaking her head again. “MACUSA can’t know what we’re doing.”

 

“... You have Muggles involved,” Blaise says resignedly.

 

“And we’ll have more,” Daphne agrees. “Once we start moving your lot over.”

 

“Which brings us to the reason behind the census,” Henry says. “Obviously, with the school already in place, it’ll be easiest for us to take the children first. But a school needs teachers, and an influx of Muggle students means we’ll need teachers for Muggle subjects.”

 

“We also need doctors, nurses, farmers— basic necessities, really,” Daphne adds. “We have a few connections handling the initial settling of the land, but if we want to ensure that we can feed the people that live there, we need more than a handful of Herbologists tending to the farms.”

 

“There might be a problem, there,” Blaise says. “Luna made a point of trying to keep families together as best she could. They won’t take kindly to being separated now.”

 

“That’s fine— we can work around that,” Daphne says, glancing at Henry. “But those are the people we’ll need first.”

 

“Bill Weasley is already warding the area surrounding Paradise Valley,” Henry says. “And construction has begun on a handful of apartment complexes surrounding the school. We should be ready for some six hundred people by the end of the month.”

 

“That’s good,” Pansy says wryly. “Considering that Luna is expecting to send us another three hundred or so in the next week.”

 

Blaise grimaces. He really doesn’t have the space to take care of so many people, and he certainly doesn’t have the healers.

 

“How are you regarding medical care?” Henry asks, catching Blaise’s look.

 

Blaise sighs.

 

“I have one healer to every hundred,” he says. “A little less. It isn’t enough.”

 

Henry nods sharply.

 

“Have Sirius speak to Procyon,” he says, turning to Daphne. “There’s a whole branch of Blacks here dedicated to the art— I’m sure they can spare a few to help.”

 

Daphne hums and makes a note in a small black book sitting on the table beside her.

 

There’s a sudden, polite knock on the door, on that has Blaise standing in a moment, wand out and an arm over Freedom.

 

“Put that away, but be ready,” Henry says. “Daphne, if you would?”

 

Daphne nods and rises to her feet, the tip of her wand just visible where it pokes out from the sleeve of her dress. She opens the door to reveal… a man. A Native man.

 

He gives her a charming smile.

 

“Good evening,” he says. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was told there was a Henry Potter here?”

 

“May I ask who you are?” Daphne asks, and the man chuckles.

 

“You must be Daphne,” the man says. “I’ve heard tales of you.”

 

“All true, depending.” She gives him a smile. “I ask again: who are you, sir?”

 

The man holds out a hand.

 

“Martin Hawke,” he says. “My niece is Antonia Rockhead— though she goes by Rocky, these days.”

 

“Rocky?” Daphne looks over at Henry, then back to Martin. “As in—”

 

“Former member of the Mongrels, and mother of Morgan Medina.” He tilts his head. “Mind if I come in?”

 

Daphne looks at Henry, who nods.

 

Martin steps inside, smoothing a hand over his lapels.

 

“Henry Potter,” he says, dark eyes focusing on the man in question. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.”

 

“Oh? And why’s that?”

 

“Rumor has it you’re a wizard,” Martin says. “And you have something to do with my niece’s newfound happiness.”

 

Blaise resists to urge to groan. Great, more Muggles.

 

“Those are good reasons to want to meet me,” Henry agrees. “But that’s not the reason you want to see me, really.”

 

Martin hums.

 

“You’re sharp,” he says. “I see why Rocky speaks of you with such reverence. She always liked the smart ones. May I?”

 

He gestures toward the empty seat to Henry’s left.

 

“Please.”

 

Martin takes a seat.

 

“Rocky tells me your people are running,” he says. “From a man who believes the world owes him something.”

 

Blaise goes stiff. Potter’s been running his mouth, it seems, or someone close to him. There’s no reason for this Muggle to know anything about— about—

 

Henry doesn’t twitch. He doesn’t indicate in any way that he’s surprised.

 

“Some of us are,” he admits. “Some of them have joined him.”

 

“That’s the way of Men,” Martin says. “I would like to help your cause, if I can.”

 

That _ does  _ get a reaction. Henry blinks, brow furrowing.

 

_ “Why?” _ he asks incredulously. “You don’t even know me.”

 

Martin hums, leaning back in his seat.

 

“Antonia is my niece by blood, but in practice, she is my daughter,” he says after a moment. “Her father was uninvolved, you understand, and my sister struggled with depression until it finally took her. She spent most of her formative years under my roof, and when she moved to Berkeley, I worried she might fall in with… unsavory people.” Martin shifts, giving Henry a little smile. “Instead, she found you, and your little group. She met a man she loved, and when it became clear she would have trouble conceiving, you gave her a chance that she might never have otherwise been given. For that, I owe you the world.”

 

“She knew Joey long before she met me,” Henry points out.

 

“Perhaps. But my words stand. If it’s possible, I would like to help.”

 

Henry looks over to Daphne, and this is the first time during this entire meeting that he’s looked uncertain. She arches an eyebrow at him, mouthing something that Blaise can’t understand, but by the look Henry gives her, he doesn’t like it.

 

He turns back to Martin.

 

“I won’t lie and say we don’t need it,” he says. “But I’m not sure what…”

 

“I can give you my contact information,” Martin says. “Or Antonia can. There are limits to my power, but… Indians know what it means to be hunted.”

 

Henry bows his head, and Martin gets to his feet.

 

“I get the feeling I interrupted something important,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “Please, forgive me.”

 

“It’s no trouble, Mr. Hawke,” Henry says, giving him a small smile. “What we’re talking about needed a break, regardless.”

 

“Unhappy topics are often the most important ones,” Martin says. “Please, come to my office when you’re finished. We can swap information there.”

 

Henry bows his head in agreement, and Martin pushes himself to his feet, striding towards the door.

 

Henry waits until they’re alone again before turning back to Blaise.

 

“Where were we?”

 

Blaise had been infuriated when Merrick had explained the reason Harry Potter disappeared from Great Britain. It had been a cowardly, selfish decision, unbefitting of a Gryffindor, especially one who seems to find allies so easily. Perhaps if he hadn’t left, the war would have never happened. Perhaps if he stayed, the war would have been short, and Blaise wouldn’t be harboring Muggles in his grandmother’s vineyards.

 

“Did you catch what Daphne said to him?” Pansy asks three hours later, when they go to retire in their rented suite. “When Mr. Hawke offered to help?”

 

“No,” Blaise says.

 

“She said ‘king’,” Freedom says quietly from his place beside Blaise. “Mr. Potter didn’t seem to like it, much.”

 

Blaise shares a glance with Pansy. She looks… concerned.

 

Blaise doesn’t blame her.


End file.
